


The Menace of Skyrim or How to Survive Destiny While in the Dark Brotherhood

by briannetoma



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action & Romance, Adventure & Romance, Aedra (Elder Scrolls), Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Angst and Romance, Archery, Art, Assassins, Bad Nicknames, Bars and Pubs, Cannibalism, Chapter Art, Cicero being Cicero, Cooking recipes, Daddy Issues, Daedra (Elder Scrolls), Daedra Worship (Elder Scrolls), Daedric Princes (Elder Scrolls), Dark Brotherhood Questline, Dark Comedy, Dark Fantasy, Dark Humor, Dark Past, Digital Art, Dragonborn - Freeform, Dunmer (Elder Scrolls), Dysfunctional Family, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Issues, Family Secrets, Fanart, First Love, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Interspecies Romance, Justice, Love, Love at First Sight, Macabre, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mommy Issues, Night Mother, Orphans, Psychological Trauma, Psychopaths In Love, Recipes, Revenge, Romance, S&M, Sadomasochism, Skyrim Civil War, Sovngarde (Elder Scrolls), The Forsworn (Elder Scrolls), The Night Mother (Elder Scrolls) - Freeform, Torture, Werewolves, homicidal, mental drama, plantsing the crap out of this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-01-15 06:49:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 91,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21249185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briannetoma/pseuds/briannetoma
Summary: Igniri's boredom masking a traumatic childhood event overwhelms her to the point her actions snowball her into the hands of the Dark Brotherhood. A chance encounter with a fool in need flips her world sideways, forcing her to come to grips with her past, and the present emotional turmoil of falling in love.A Cicero and Igniri dark love dramedy.Posted as cleaned up first draft.11 JANUARY 2021: HI, GUYS! I've had a family emergency and it's difficult getting settled to write anything. Emotional and mental strain has killed it for me. So you lovely people know, I am NOT abandoning this story, just give me some time as I work through some things. I never leave a project unfinished. Just wish this crap didn't hinder my creative juices. I want to be in the Skyrim world so much...it's my escape...but I gotta take care of myself in real life. And I'm doing that. :) Thank you for understanding! I love all the comments and kudos I receive! You guys are AMAZING!!!!!!!!!!!Estimated time 'til next chapter....maybe another month? And if I manage a little earlier I'll be delightfully surprised.





	1. A Good Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri reminisces her timeline that got her into the mess she made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "Down Come the Rain" (feat. Adam Christopher) - Hidden Citizens - Black Clouds

Betrayed again but I deserve it.

My tear falls in a curve at the mercy of the wind and I’m a fool to watch as it vanishes in the details of the water far below. Faintness rushes and I gasp in the cold to kill it. Only my heels have something to stand on and my toes have cramped from bending them back in my boots. My chest tightens. There’s a sting in my side. I hear the banners of Solitude ripple in the sudden gust. I grip the cement, my fingers sweating in leather gloves slipping. All that holds me from falling is my weight pinned against the bridge wall. Voices shout above me, carried off by weather. Footsteps shift against stone. Someone leans over and the sun off their helm stabs my eye. I look away and my lie takes off, a chef’s hat that frees my hair to whip my face, and stick to my wet skin.

I could have been happy but the world never let me. Maybe I deserve that too and the only thing left to do is pay for it, though my choices aren’t ideal. Archers can’t get me from the guardhouses and the swordsmen will have to brave the ledge with me for a chance. They’ll never get it if I let go. But if I die, I can’t kill her. When Maro had trapped me here, the veil lifted, and I knew.

This is all _her_ fault.

Or it could have been partially mine.

I can still feel the rain plitter against my face the night I burst into flame. When I could see through the orange haze, I had looked up at the sky and noticed the waves of turquoise like musical sheets playing the stars. Clouds, really, formed by a mage to douse my village too late for it to mean anything. Soldiers encircled me, but the blackened houses encircled them, with a sickly aroma hinting their occupancy. Axes wavered in my direction, for what’s a Nord to do with a ten-year-old Dunmer and a village of burnt corpses?

Wait out the fire, I suppose.

I have an impulse. Not sure where it started but I have a hunch it was that moment twenty-five years ago which left a smoldering crater in my life. I’ve been trying to fill it since. It’s led me through castles, haunts, even ruins. Every tavern I visit I always ask for the same thing. When I can’t afford it, I take it anyway, sometimes when they’re looking if they’re too drunk, and trying to get into my skins to notice. Or beat me. Sometimes that. Dark elves aren’t welcome in many Nord cities and they sure try to fuck you where it only pleases them. It’s why I had places out of town. Bandit camps, bear caves, dragon roosts—they were occupied when I had to slaughter them all so I could sleep. Warm bodies for blankets is a bonus. I digress because it’s the hunt that led me to my fate in Solitude, not my lack of roots, but my lack of cheese. Okay, a bit more than cheese, but it has equal blame.

Six months ago, I find myself kneeling in front of a lock that clicks open so easily I think of a funny line from the Lusty Maid books. The distraction fades as I try to recall my steps from dinner at the Bee and Barb to breaking into a storefront across town. I catch a sniff of aged eider, pungent but creamy with a bite in the finish. I must have been so hypnotized by the fragrance I don’t remember following it. How I have a nose for these things goes beyond logical. The next thing I know I’ve stashed it in my bag and am sneaking back out when I catch eyes with a man in the market square.

“You didn’t earn a lick of it, did ye, lass?”

I might have licked it but I don’t say it since he does all the talking, thinking my long silence is a means to fill it. I observe his auburn features first and how his mouth slithers words out like a snake but he’s the charmer. A deceiver. I don’t care for lies but if someone else calls the shots I can hide behind them fine.

He tells me to follow his lead and the rest is what I stuff into my bag as days move to weeks. I take on various contracts and it’s great at first, the rush of being in control, in the shadows, invisible, and getting away with it every time.

Every single time.

I deal with Mercer Frey in the same way as my village, and the guild sees me, the lady who can smuggle wheels of cheese in one heist, as their replacement leader, but the guild still needs work, and I dim-wittingly agree.

“Do you have any work?” I say.

“As a matter a fact I do.” Vex says.

“I’ll take it.”

“Right. Here you go.”

“I’m back.”

“Good. Want more?”

“I’ll take it.”

“Right. Here you go.”

“I’m back.”

“Good. Want more?”

“I’ll take it.”

Yeah, I take it right up my ass again and again. I’ve become a waterwheel, the river keeps me moving but nothing changes. The rush is a trickle now, a depressing boredom getting away with every job, but moreso nothing coming out of it except money. What’s it for when no one in the guild hangs out with me or even has the slightest interest? The lady who could smuggle barrels of cheese wheels aches from repetition. I stare into my tankard of ale and my red eyes look deader than I want to feel. Brynjolf taps me on the shoulder and calls me to a meeting. I slam my drink. Everyone stands around the cistern and I’m the centerpiece. Mercer’s old office, once empty with a few scattered papers, shines with priceless bobbles displayed on the shelves. Every ornament Delvin bought from my expeditions rests among the gold.

Brynjolf hands me the guildmaster’s armor after a speech I missed because I couldn’t stop thinking about one thing: what would it be like to lose control?

A silly thing to ponder but I have always been the mistress of intent, even the night I burned my village. I’m not going to pretend it was an accident. I know why I did it.

I must have said thanks because I’ve left and find myself back in the Flagon sitting at the bar with people touching me more than they’ve earned. Not one of them asked about my past. No one here knows what I've done and they make it a point for everyone to keep their pasts a secret. All but Karliah.

Delvin slaps me on the back, hard, and I stiffen.

“Congratulations, Igniri,” he says. “You have everything a thief could ever want.”

I tilt my empty tankard.

“Fill ‘er up?” Vekel asks.

I shake my head.

It doesn’t matter.

It’ll just be empty again.

I throw up over a railing and into the sewage. I remove the bile from my lips with my glove and wipe it on the wooden post, then take a walk to the surface where the stars greet me, and torchbugs flee. It’s quiet apart from the guards creaking armor and shifting chainmail during patrols. People are leaving their stores, double checking locks, then proceeding home. I stroll the market circle for nothing in particular except the crisp air and mind-opening peace I only get on nights like this.

Someone bumps my shoulder and when I turn they yell, “watch where you’re going, ash face!” The woman looks back at me, snarling, nostrils flared, wrinkles wrinkling until her whole face ripples old. She stomps away, hump and bowed legs teetering off towards the orphanage.

Racist remarks are stings in an icy wind. They do little but annoy me. The only people who hate Dunmer worse are up in Windhelm. Ulfric has a special place for them. If any dark elf breathed wrong they could be locked up in the dungeon. Here in Riften, I’d get away with anything. If I stick around as guildmistress, I’ll be richer than the emperor, as happy as his frown, withering until I call someone else an ash face with zero consequence. The call to leading a cause I no longer believe in, and people I do not value, is the signature underline of a death certificate. I cannot answer it and I will not sign it.

I stare at the orphanage door closing, locks clicking in place so loud my ears could have been next to the frame. I fiddle with the lockpicks in my belt pouch.

Windhelm’s a good start.


	2. What Makes Her Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri discovers adventure's call at an inopportune time and diverts to another, where she becomes a catalyst for political mayhem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having fun changing around the storyline and making it more personal, growing animosity in places where the game stayed neutral for a while. This jumps our future Dragonborn into amusing conflicts for upcoming chapters I hope to use. I'm plantsing this. Meaning, Planner/Pantser writing, as I usually do. I have a rough outline but it's ultimately the character's decisions where the plot goes, who they love, who they hate, and though I am keeping the Dark Brotherhood storyline, it will be different than what gamers are used to.
> 
> Warning: this chapter depicts a dog death...however I never kill dogs. hint hint. I just want to warn you ahead of time cuz this is a big no-no for me and he's not really dead. Okie dokie? Igniri just thinks he is. Okay. Now that I've spoiled the drama...onward!

I’ve been told my people aren’t meant for the cold like this. I assume they mean those in Morrowind, because I certainly don’t have a nasty case of jaundice like those mantis bugs with mage staffs up their thoraxes. Because Azure had a go with a bowl of scrapped clay, I get a kick out of scaring kids with my red eyes in the dark. As my carriage rides up to the stables outside the bridge, I get my chance. A child runs along the carriage holding up her toy. We halt and she skitters away behind a horse stall. She peeks out—I peer over the edge of my cart, hands covering my face. I break them open like castle shutters and she squeals behind her doll. Before I drop down and head for the gate, I had caught a glance of how carefully-made the toy was, with straw, and faded cloth tied into limbs. It has a painted face and the eyes aren’t equal size, but how the child hugs it when she thinks I’m not paying attention anymore means it doesn’t matter how it looks, but that she loves it. I knew a girl who hugged her doll like that. Nothing seems sewn which means she may have made it herself and since no one is yelling at her to get inside because it’s past her bedtime, I’m right.

Windhelm’s air has the distinct smell of headache. It’s dry weather I can’t stand having to sniff out. The instant the iciness hits my sharp nostrils, I beg the heavens to gift me with a scarf. I could just steal one but I’m certain the act would hang me dull. I must get into the city and break my monotonous existence, else the child might have a life size corpse for a new toy.

The easiest way to get arrested is to find an Altmer’s store and ravage their goods. The guild’s fence doesn’t count but she’s about pompous enough to set example of why I hold them in such malice regard. I instantly smell the smoke from the blacksmith’s workshop in the marketplace. He must’ve just closed for the day and secured the embers. I’m too late to make a scene at the market, so I head right. Not where I want to go but the corner club has enough to cause a spat.

Fresh snow crunches beneath my boots until I reach a high and low forked path. It’s shorter to go low, but someone’s under a pass attached to a two-story home further down the high road. A dark elf talks with a human boy in red. Customarily, I overlook the norm, but these ears pick up many things besides frostbite.

“Then it’s true what they’re saying?” the boy answers something I didn’t hear before.

But I did hear what came after: the Black Sacrament.

“It’s utter nonsense,” the woman says.

I’m about to leave when the child begins to walk up to the house and knock on the door.

“No wait!” The woman snatches his arm and pulls him back. “That house is cursed!”

“I knew it! He’s trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood!”

Who? Yet my heart plucks a chord telling me I either ate something spicy, or…

I watch them break away, oblivious to me.

I should’ve kept walking. I should’ve pushed all the shelves down in the club and hit the owner over the head with a cheese wheel which would have been better than doing this. My pick’s already in the lock and it clicks open. Why me?

When I creak open the door, old wood and months of dust hit my nostrils, and the sound of a child reciting incantations fills the musty, warm abode.

_Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother_

_Send your child unto me._

_For the sins of the unworthy_

_must be baptized in blood_

_and fear._

There’s a small foyer, and stairs leading immediately left up to the main floor. I slip myself to the top, hands on my bow, but I doubt anyone will jump me. I feel no violent presence and move in closer to the voice. Candles are alight in an alcove adjacent to the living room. A bed rests in the corner, a small dining table stands closest to me, with an open letter from the jarl. Apparently Ulfric knew about this kid. An orphan, living alone.

Another bloody orphan.

“You’re here! I knew it! I knew the Dark Brotherhood would come!” The boy runs about me, a living embodiment of what he thinks is an assassin. “I’m Aventus. And you are…you’re not at all what I expected. But you’re here! That’s what matters and I’m grateful.”

His brown eyes beam up at me.

I glance behind him—this black sacrament requires a lot of candles. Hope he doesn’t burn his only refuge down with this delusion that I’m going to help him.

“My mother…she died…I’m all alone now…so they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften.”

Grelod’s sneering face looks back at me.

He adds, “She’s a horrible, cruel woman.”

I remember the blow to my shoulder, like she couldn’t find an inch to move around me; intentional.

He concludes, “I want you to kill her.”

What?

My face must have turned sour because he laughs. “Not without coin, of course. I’m a kid but I’m not broke. When the job’s done, you’ll have your payment. Now hurry. It’s awfully lonely here and I miss my friends.”

He almost rushes me out the door before I can process what I heard, with scarce time to swipe the cheese from the shelf, and just as he locks the house to my back—

“Were you just in the Aretino residence?” A guard folds his arms, full armor, with a warhammer on his back, and stares me down half an arm-length away. Enough to notice his scar on his cheekbone.

I look at him, I look back at the door, I look at him again.

_Kill her_ pushes itself out of my head and refills with _get caught_ as thick as mama’s stew.

“Why yes,” I say, pulling a pin from my hair. “I broke in with this, stealing this goat—” I pull the prize from my bag, “—cheese.” I hold them in each hand, grinning ear to ear.

“Oh,” he says. He hesitates taking the pin, but does, and puts it in his belt pouch.

This is it. This is when he brandishes his weapon and orders me to follow him into jail! At last! I’m not invincible! I’m not invisible! My life is not without consequences to my crimes!

He can’t seem to pocket the cheese, so he rests it under his arm. “Come with me.”

We head for the keep, home of Ulfric Stormcloak, the Nordest Nord in all Skyrim. I can’t explain the rush I get seeing the back of the guards mail, how he escorts me through the city, and the colossal walls bearing down on me, judging me—how small I am, but seen. Seen! Not at all in my element nor part of a plan. My life is in their hands now and each nerve in my being sparks, blades gliding against stone.

The door takes two guards to push, but once they start, the momentum takes along the oiled hinges. We enter. The great hall could fit an army of giants. I see the dungeon. I see the door. We walk past. The door wanes as I’m inclined to follow the law to the throne. I smell all the dairy fixings resting on the banquet table and none of it matters if I’m not going through that door! That door there! Why aren’t we going through!?

I spin my attention frontward and the guard stops me just before I step on his foot.

Ulfric Stormcloak casually sits, staring at me as I would a tapestry with an expressionless family portrait.

“Are you sure this is her?” Ulfric nearly dismisses the claim when the guard acknowledges. “This Dunmer was checking on the boy?”

Words form in my mind but when I structure them to make any sense, my heart pulls me away from saying them at all. In distraught misery, I’m doomed to know one thing: I’m not getting arrested.

Ulfric continues, “I have more pressing matters. I ordered them to have an eye out for the Thieves Guild. And that unmistakable armor…”

I almost stopped listening until I had realized that, for once, they noticed me.

“There are rumors your kind are spies,” he says. “I’m willing to overlook that, as I know any member of the guild cares more for coin than country. I have dire need of your skills. There’s something I must do. I do not trust the Imperials to play fair and will need an…evacuation plan. May I count you in?”

I tense my shoulders. Heat washes my coal black hair. My cheeks burn and I’m certain he can see them turn whatever color I get when I’m pissed. Ache builds in my neck. Frustration begs to thrash and I look at the guard who I could easily assault to gain my infamy. Theft seems to only tickle the puppet strings. It’s the same plot with the same character and every show with the same audience. I need cut. I need out, but would I commit violence against an innocent? This guard has done nothing to me but hold my possessions. I have no reason to and I can’t see myself hurting him to get my way. I have standards.

I do.

“When I confront the high king, you’ll be compensated your fair share when I survive.” My confusion stirs enough that Ulfric simplifies, “I’m going to kill the High King. You in?”

Ulfric’s not so bad once you get beyond all the talking about land ownership, who is the superior race, and how he spent a decade training alone with some old geezers in robes who never shave. I would have feared my womanhood if they had been Dibella worshippers. If they had been, Ulfric would have shut his mouth hours ago after they had come up with a fair plan to undergo this trial by combat. Nord thing.

Skyrim has been under a war recently brought to a moot point. After Ulfric saved Markarth he’s established himself ruler of Windhelm, and now proceeds to tell me why he’s rightful high king all the while I’m stuck riding beside his Stormcloaks, heading to Solitude. A couple day’s ride, if you’ve the stomach to let the sound poison continue.

“A dark elf couldn’t understand the needs of liberty in her own country as she feeds off our land, refugees from Morrowind, suffering the Nords.”

The saddle’s numbed my ass the first hour of riding and I think my feet became frozen treats for wildlife passing by. That ache in my neck before is now a crick, a sharp sting that pokes the back of my eyeball.

“I’m from The Reach.”

His horse remains steady, but the man turns about and sees me as a bloated sore. He grows a sneer in his beard, then finally accepts what I don’t know.

“So you do talk,” he says. “And you lie. All your kind are from Red Mountain.”

I squeeze the reins and wish they were thicker, wide and soft with pumping blood inside so I can see the life I strangle fade, like my words, to the wind.

I spent a month without talking one time. When I was young, I had a friend who brushed my hair. She’d talk the entire time and if anyone came up to us for anything, she’d be the one to answer. Important girl business. No adults allowed. When she was done, she’d have me look in the nearby stream by our houses. I’d have long, silky hair from an oil she used, and braids on the sides.

“To keep it out of your eyes,” she had said. “I know how you like to run.”

She had golden locks that glowed in the sunlight of her smile and eyes holding the sky. Our childhoods were the perfect scene: fields to play and warm households to come back to. We had been happy since they took us out of diapers.

Then her parents left for Markarth.

And never returned.

I gripped my mother’s dress so hard I thought I would tear it off. Maybe she’d run to the guards as I dragged her outside into the road of our village. I had watched them haul her onto a horse, told to hold onto the man seated in front of her. Her eyes dark, so stormy all the shine run down her cheeks. Golden locks now dull, disheveled, and matted to the tears. She looked at me once.

Only once.

Then never looked back as if I didn’t exist anymore.

“Mama, you can’t let them take her away!” I screamed. “You can’t! She’s family! She’s family!”

“I can’t, Igniri!” She shouted back. “I can’t afford another mouth!”

“That’s a lie! A LIE! Stop them!”

“I’m sorry!”

I shoved my mother but she was rooted in the mud from the night’s rain. Clouds hung over as if the gods wanted to shut me out. Tell me to be quiet. To be calm. It’s what everyone else is doing. They’re not losing what matters. 

I burst forward to run. Mother snatched my arm and I lurched back, flat into the ground. I thrashed to get away but she was strong. I needed to run. The longer I stayed in place the hotter my stomach brewed, steaming up the urge to vomit. Between tears and protests I couldn’t take the sick. I bellowed.

“STOP THEM! DON’T TAKE HER AWAY FROM ME! THAT’S MY FRIEND! SHE’S MY FRIEND!”

My unrelenting cries were deaf to everyone, to the village, the guards, Mother, the deities, and to Aerin.

Why didn’t she look back?

Didn’t she hear me?

That wasn’t the day, if you were wondering.

That wasn’t even that year.

Adulthood later, I learn the real reason why my mother didn’t take her in. Because Ulfric explains it to me and he must be telling me the truth because Nords never lie.

“In war, we have orphans on both sides,” he states, “and Imperial families can’t take in Nords loyal to me. Stormcloaks can’t take in Imperials.”

So I don’t talk.

Not unless it’s important. I try, I’m not mute, but people refuse to listen. And that makes this trip even more agonizing.

When we get to the gates and dismount, Ulfric mentions an insider and I’m to work with him to smuggle Ulfric out with as many Stormcloaks as possible, though they’re willing to die for the cause. We storm the castle and I snicker that Ulfric is wearing a cloak. He demands the trial approaching the throne, a Nord custom, and Torygg answers reluctantly. 

“I admire you, Ulfric Stormcloak,” he says. “Are you certain you want to do it this way?”

“I do,” Ulfric answers.

People say the High King is fair and just, not at all a puppet, but those who absorb what spills out of Ulfric’s mouth, think he is.

I had suggested the barracks courtyard, nearest to General Tullius to Ulfric, but to me I scouted several gates left unchecked by guards in my thieving days, and it’s easiest to drop to sea level with narrowest, possibly bloodiest choke points along the way. We had posted Stormcloaks in Imperial armor up top, so any archers will be disposed of quickly. And a fast path to the gates.

Torygg agrees, feeling secure that the Imperials have the upperhand in case Ulfric tries anything. Truly, he needs to fear the ash face standing behind the bear man.

They draw blades.

It’s another fight, one I’ve seen enough to where I stare at my boots until I hear cheers, but instead—BOOM. A cave rupturing air from its belly. It goes through me, a force I can’t describe, like a ballista fire of wind striking my entire body. Torygg’s knocked against a wall. He can’t get up. He lies there and Ulfric struts over, blade down, and—

It’s over.

—Torygg’s last breath wheezes with the sword stabbed between his ribs.

Trial by combat and we still have to run like hell.

I get most of Ulfric’s people to safety on skiffs, his insider, not so lucky, and we make our way to the assignation at Darkwater Crossing, paddling as fast as we can downriver. I insist we lick our wounds here as we drag our boats into the bushes, and mask the hull trails with stones. Another Nord takes us into his home. A few Stormcloaks remain, but others insist on continuing back to north to Windhelm.

“Too many soldiers draw attention,” Ulfric says.

I agree adamantly.

We wait the morning in the basement and I’m up first to find breakfast. One of the miners offers me tea with a roll of sweetbread as they leave for work. I’m appreciative and show it by sharing the loaf with a mangy dog. I’m about to sip from my cup but smell a sweetness I’m not sure of. I set the cup down when I hear hooves approach.

General Tullius and a squad of men emerge from the wooded road. And I, the fool, stand in the single road through the mining village, a sore, gray thumb.

His men reach for their bows.

I walk up to the general regardless. He’s old and lean, but still a fighter, and hair that never gets in his eyes. He observes me, for whatever reason, then holds out his hand in greeting.

I take it.

“Good job, girl,” he says.

Doors fly open behind me and I spin about. Ulfric erupts from the house, sword in hand, and the Imperials draw their arrows, strings stretching, tightening. Ulfric stops and sees them. Sees me. He charges, snarling, and growling until more soldiers appear behind him, weapons drawn and ready to fire. He’s blind to it all. He has to get to me before the arrows release. He does and he swings. A shield bashes into his side and knocks him down. Another soldier pins him down. Ulfric stares up at me.

“You—” he says before he’s gagged.

A wave of accomplishment casts a spell and I smile right before someone kicks my knees out and I drop. A man grabs my wrists and rope wraps and squeezes my hands together. My skin tickles my hairs on end, chilling me, yet flushing the blood to my cheeks, leaving me panting. I catch drool forming in the corner of my mouth with my tongue. I swallow.

“Of course, this makes you an accomplice, and I have to take you in.” Tullius consoles, “Sorry.”

I haven’t stopped smiling yet and my face aches after years of solemn frowning.

Two words, Ulfric, that could have saved you in the beginning if you just arrested me for burglary.

Get caught.

Now we’re both gonna die. 

“Isn’t it exciting?” I say.

A whine looms behind Ulfric, back toward the house, and I peer over to see the mutt tremble. It coughs, hacking what it ate, and upon trying to walk up the porch steps, it knocks over my cup of tea, half-empty. The mutt lies on the wood planks, convulsing until it finally spews sweetroll and tea, then curls into a ball, and seemingly goes to sleep. I stare as long as I can even after Tullius heaves me up into the coming cart, watching intently for any breath. Any.

I have standards. 

Now I really deserve death.


	3. Do I Get Wings?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri escapes Helgen and learns she is Dragonborn, then beats feet northward, and sees a jester who sees her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Song: "I Started A Joke (feat. Becky Hanson)" - Suicide Squad soundtrack
> 
> Igniri needs flaws so she's not right all the time, but what happens to her will be deserving, and understandable, but you root for her anyway. Maybe after this chapter, she'll stop summarizing, and let us live in her life a little. ;) ....that's a lot of Ls.

You could call it how you see it. A moral correction gone bad. I didn’t let two guilty parties leave unscathed but in the thick of wanting to lose myself to the world’s chaos, I dragged an innocent with us. Ulfric sits beside me as the ultimate killer. His Nord followers tried to poison me. Get me first before I get them? Loose ends? Maybe he hates Dunmer that much. Ulfric killed the High King while my past and present are wrought with death. We deserve this. A moral correction.

The reality?

I thought it’d be funny.

Fog reaches over our cool morning and I overhear Tullius beyond the ghostly trees in white sheets, haunting the path into Helgen. This other Nord in front of me assumes he knows what happened. Along the journey, the Imperials had picked up border-jumpers, and sorted them into our cart and another. When it rains treachery, it’s a deluge. I had no idea the general would wind up with this much cargo to dump with the headsman. Ulfric’s leaned over and hunched, glaring at me, then the blond.

It’s annoying when people won’t stop talking about shit they don’t know, isn’t it, bear man?

“You and me,” says the other guy, a lesser thief than me, “We shouldn’t be here! It’s the Stormcloaks they’re after.”

I got to say goodbye to the friends I made in my life when I knocked out after that carb load. Damn sweetrolls. In my dream, they had stood in parallel lines, and told me they’d miss me, but when I walked to the end of the path between, I turned around, and they were gone. Then I had remembered, I don’t have any friends.

No one will miss me. I suppose I could make new friends in Sovngarde. Do I have to pray to Talos for entry or is the place non-exclusive?

The horse thief won’t shut up but one of the guards coaching us to the town yells at him, and the quiet becomes pleasurable. Calm. I savor the peace it brings with the breeze off the mountain as we enter the gate, then almost burst into laughter when we park, and the horse thief breaks into a full sprint straight down the open road. Thieves Guild reject dies instantly by arrows.

Ulfric drops down and follows the guards to the line-up. Like cattle inventory, they muster us, and ensure our death date is recorded. Tullius’ upper management checks off the Stormcloaks, then proceeds to me with pinched eyebrows.

“I…don’t see you here.” He scribbles something on the parchment, quill scratching probably my race and gender. He’ll not get much else because I never gave my name to Tullius. It never came up. “The gods have not been kind to your people, have they, refugee?”

I’m not a—argh…

“Captain,” he gives the fancy armored woman a sideways glance. “What do we do? She’s not on the list.”

“Forget the list,” she answers sternly, manners lacking for present company. “She goes to the block.”

“By your orders,” then he says to me, “I’m sorry. I’ll make sure your remains return to Morrowind.”

“Please don’t,” I say that could very well be my last words.

I shouldn’t have to go out this way. I could say something else. Anything but “don’t.” I’m about to go into the line-up when Tullius starts reprimanding Ulfric for his verbal abuse.

“A hero doesn’t use the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne!”

_Blork_. No that’s too short.

“What was that?” Someone else says.

“It’s nothing,” Tullius assures. “Carry on.”

_Knee-come-poop_. Maybe it’s funnier in Dunmeri. I never learned.

The captain beside me bellows in my ear, “Yes, General Tullius!” with no apology for enthusiastic military bearing. Maybe she’d be jealous if I told her he was the one who got me in these ropes. How he made me get down on my knees, how he whispered in my long ears—

“Next! The dark elf!”

—_Ferdimizzlefrazzlesizzlemickmillymiz_. That’s great! If I can remember it with an axe swinging at my neck.

A sound forces everyone to pause again, but this time I hear it, as plain as a milk maid. It resembles someone exhaling on a window to draw on the painted fog, or a spent laugh stretched like taffy.

Have I ever wondered what it would’ve been like if I didn’t betray Ulfric? If I had just stayed the guildmaster, and worked until I retired with rolling hills of gold? For a second. I had looked into the basket of heads and thought, “Why the glum face?”

The headsman’s axe is stained with old and fresh blood. He doesn’t clean or sharpen his weapon for my benefit, or the fellows before. I silently pray to Talos, asking for a one-strike blow to be enough. The last thing I want is to enter the afterlife knowing the feeling of a botched beheading, and the dozens staring at me with my neck split open, skin and bone holding desperate to my basket ornament, my eyes bulging, mouth gaping, though I cannot scream.

My prayer’s answered with another exhale to glass. It echoes across the sky, its corporeal image pans behind the headsman readying the killing blow. He swings the blade high. The dragon lands, its wings as curved as the blade, and just as blackened. My final words are not nonsense, or pleas, or spiteful anger, vows of vengeance, but as matter-of-fact, and not surprised in the least.

“Hey,” I say, “There’s a dragon behind you.”

It roars and screeches, tearing at my ears, and of course I can’t cover them with my hands bound. We’re knocked back by hot breath, a pulse that darkens the sky, then lights up again with falling stars. I thought stars were small. They’re just as nasty as the dragon’s breath and scorch everything around; hot coals popping out of a giant’s fire, a giant bigger than Nirn.

People scream, soldiers run—swords, shields, bows drawn—someone yells at me to follow them, and I stand from my grave, as if I died already, a ghost left in the open ground, ignored by the winged giant. I watch the fire bellow from its throat, almost hearing words I could understand if I just listened a little while longer. Smoke breeds from nearby houses, pluming out to kiss families, and choke them. A menacing look brightens the dragon’s eyes. An anger, the same anger, except these people have a chance. I never gave one.

“What are you doing!?” that same someone yells.

An Imperial stands in an archway, the only one who had meant well.

“Look out!” he barks.

The ground becomes a wall I fall against, and the dragon flies off, belting words again. I can’t get up. Hands hold my shoulders down and force me to turn. Ulfric blocks out the swirling sky, bearing his teeth. Guess he got the gag off. He snarls, draws in the smoky air through flared nostrils, as if to shout me to death, but he neglects where my hands are.

I flick him in the balls hard and he keels over, holding himself in a way before his mother birthed him, and I scramble to my feet, and bolt for the gate. Despite the raining balls from the sky, his are the ones most burning.

I subtly chuckle, running with the Imperial man toward the keep, as houses die in coats of fire, and bodies lie across spans of dirt.

“What’s funny?” he asks me after he shuts the door, leaving his kindness with his quill and paper.

“Fireballs,” I say.

He denies me with a head shake, then takes me, and a few capable soldiers through the functional part of the keep, the barracks.

The rest of the story is guesswork. It’s exciting at first. I had learned Hadvar has family in a nearby village, living right next to Stormcloaks, and underneath the keep is a torture chamber adjacent to a lush cave used for all sorts of shenanigans. A great smuggler’s underground if someone had taken out the infestations first. Had Helgen not been wiped, I would have—might have—tipped Delvin. But the rush of running off with a sympathizer faded and quickly drowned itself when I arrived in Whiterun alone to tell the closest jarl the news about dragons.

They’re back.

Hadvar decided to stay in Riverwood, tend to his cousin’s forge, and blah blah blah. There’s an armored dark elf barking at me.

I stand in the great hall before the steps to the jarl’s throne and this bootlicker has her sword in my face like I stole the crown off his head when he was sleeping two weeks ago to check the craftsmanship authenticity. Am I getting off track?

“What is the meaning of this interruption!?” she snarls.

So I tell her.

I think I dozed off during the conference because I found myself on another quest. This one definitely more interesting because at the end of it I’m staring at a wall with legible claw marks. A light seeps into my eyes and it’s all I see until I’m light-headed, like after discovering an answer to something I’ve strained to learn for years. In seconds I know it and then it’s cozied into the rest of my vocabulary. In school, which was usually at home, or with other kids, there was always a word of the day. Well, it’s not honor, lineage, or trawl. It’s a push. I don’t say it but I sense it’s what Ulfric did to the high king. A force beyond what humans, mer, or dwarves can do without magic or science.

After I return with the tablet, the goal of my great fetch, I’m off with the other dark elf and a squad of Whiterun guards to defend the town from another dragon attack. We head southwest towards a tower where it was last spotted, and I almost want to take my sweet time with the woman still barking at me, but a dragon? My heart thunders new blood in me and I can’t resist a good sprint toward the impossible.

He’s beautiful. It’s a shame we killed it.

I stand atop the tower, lowering my bow, and lean over the edge. He’s not intimidating from up here but his head’s the size of the smallest guardsman. And a few comrades lie dead around the carcass. If it hadn’t attacked first, I probably would have left it alone, admired it from afar. This is my chance to see one up close. Closer than Helgen, that is.

When I approach I don’t see the fury I did with the black one. His eyes are glossed; once here, now elsewhere. Do they go to Sovngarde too? Drink mead with the Nords, at peace with people, animals, and fly without tiring their wings?

I reach for his face. I almost touch the scales when he begins to glow. Someone lit a pyre under him because his body burns bright orange, his scales disintegrate first, then muscle, then—

Light.

That same light from the words but brighter, larger, and warm. I breathe in and it’s like peppermint without the bite, opening my senses, absorbed through not just my skin, but an aura, if there’s such a thing. I feel lifted, a spring in my step, but a heavy heart that I took one of my own. My own? That’s not right. He wasn’t a dark elf. Was he?

“I’ve heard of you,” a guardsman says.

My fingers still tingle. I inspect them. Veins of gold roll under the tips.

“You’re dragonborn!”

I glance at the skeleton, stripped of everything but the contents in its stomach—outfits, gold, bits of furniture.

“Do I at least get wings?” I ask.

My attention darts back to the people staring at me. No one laughs. One goes on to tell a story he heard as a child. I’ve heard it from my mother. It talks about a person with the soul of a dragon. Which means if I die, I go where the dragons go, and someone else who’s dragonborn, could try and kill me, and turn me into nothing but bones.

The guards argue with the mean dark elf. I hear her name but I dub her I-merciless.

“Dragonborn? You shouldn’t be gabbing about things you don’t understand,” she says.

For reasons unknown, I snap, “Oh like you know anything about our history.” I get a few confused looks, but then one of them thinks, and backs away from me.

There it is. He knows who I am.

“The daughter of Sigyn and Fenferth.” He shies from calling me by the rumors. “I was just a boy.”

“You all were,” I say.

I-Merciless ignores the tension. “You should speak with the jarl. Tell him what’s happened.”

“Isn’t that your job?” I lean back.

“Excuse me. I have crossed all of Tamriel—”

“You see them?” I point a finger. “They’re not cowards. They’re smart. Fear means respect. Respect is earned.” I slink my bow over my shoulder. “I’ll be your messenger, but you have to wonder…” I lean in, closer than she’s comfortable with. “…why are you the only one standing near me?”

Her breath stinks of too much protein. “You can’t bully me. I’ll have you arrested!”

“I’ll just get promoted. That’s the way my life works.” I breathe back a bottle of wine, a sweet roll, and days-old vomit. “Morrow-_wh-_ind_._”

“How DARE you—” she pulls her sword but the guardsmen back up further.

I bellow the first word that fills my anger, my head until I can’t see anything but the claw marks across the wall.

“**FUS!**”

The dark elf casts off into the fields behind her and lands in the blue flowers. Pity not a puddle of mud.

The sky turns gray.

“**DO—**”

I jump but my heart jumps a mile.

“**—VA—**”

I clench at my bow strap, calming the battle drums against my ribs.

“**—KIIN!**”

It’s Shol. He knows what I did. I’m a dead woman or dead dragon.

“The Greybeards,” the storyteller says.

Oh yeah. Them too.

“They’re summoning her.”

I-Merciless gets up with a look to butcher. I open my arms, smug to my point. It’s true what I say and what I say isn’t much.

“You tell the jarl,” I say to her. “I’m busy.”

But if people listen, my words count.

Except when it’s The Greybeards.

Better run.

I head north instead of toward probable destiny. However, the further north I go, the more I feel destiny regardless. An odd feeling, like I’m meant to run away, meant to leave behind dragonborn business. Because if I follow the big booming voices on the mountain, they’ll try to tell me what to do like everyone else. Like the jarl’s tools, the guild, people in general. Everyone’s the same. They all wear that tough, dull armor but make someone else do the work. And the work is always the same. I’m always alone. It’s always quiet. I like alone. I like quiet. But sometimes it’s too quiet. Too alone. And it’s not worth living for. It’s no assumption as to why I care not for the details of my life when there’s no detail to indulge. I skip it, sleep on it, get so drunk I forget it. Why should I bore you too?

Gray clouds drag in even darker shades from the horizon. It’ll rain soon. And the dragon’s bones will enrich the soil as years of rainfall pass and I’m its reaper that begins the gardens. I’m dragonborn. Dammit it makes more sense now.

I think about the boy, his request, and get a pull in my chest. He’s alone like me. Wanting more than life dealt him. Asking anyone in this imaginary cult to end his suffering. For someone to notice him. Well, I noticed.

Ulfric didn’t even remember me. A faceless guard called me out. Ulfric knows me now and will make sure I never get away with it. That may be more fun down the road, but for now I walk up a road, and Imperials charge in a skirmish against the Nords, passing me without a glance. It’s already happening. Yet in the middle of battle, I notice something more peculiar than random violence. In my introspective woes, color stains the gray of Skyrim. A simple horse and carriage are parked on the side of the road, at the foot of a farm. Spitting curses as he kicks the cart wheel, and cries out, then holds his curled boot, even more furious, and louder, growling through his bore teeth. He at last slumps to the ground and hides his face in his knees, hugging himself.

It can’t be real. He can’t. Nothing in Skyrim has ever made my insides so sweet to smile in adoration.

But he is. My curiosity walks my silent feet toward him and his eyes peek over his kneecaps.

He notices me.

This is day.

This is the day I _want_ to help someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I Started A Joke (feat. Becky Hanson)" - original by BeeGees
> 
> I started a joke, which started the whole world crying  
But I didn’t see that the joke was on me, oh no
> 
> I looked at the skies, running my hands over my eyes  
And I fell out of bed, hurting my head from things that I’d said
> 
> I started to cry, which started the whole world laughing
> 
> I looked at the skies, running my hands over my eyes  
And I fell out of bed, hurting my head from things that I’d said
> 
> ‘Til I finally died, which started the whole world living  
Oh, if I’d only seen that the joke was on me


	4. Sahqo Om

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri meets Cicero and lives happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "My Genesis" - Ruelle

When the strings disappear where does the puppet fall?

I thought I would hang from this display forever with the world my master, barren of an audience, like a museum in the dark off-season. Pitch black all around except me, and an unbreakable glass stage. People I’ve chanced pass through the shadows ahead with barely a glance. Some I’ve pushed away, others at will, but every one of them gone as quickly as they’ve entered.

It feels like autumn’s already passed as I stand here in the road, my eyes fastened to the jester rising from his defeatism. I’ve never had anyone look at me the way he does, polite caution with sharp awareness of my calm yet whimsical spirit of inquiry, but he does not fear, not that I see. I see a man whose life is longer than the road, more broken than the wheel, and filthier than his coat. The longer he stares the more I believe he sees the same; he becomes the only one left in the dark that emerges with a single step toward me, to see why anyone would put me in the world just to hide me away.

And just as autumn cut short the summer, winter bites with his words.

He gnashes at me, “Bother and befuddled!”

My heart jumps and I straighten from the chill up my spine.

“Stuck here! Stuck!” Storm churns in his eyes, hot against the cold snap. “My Mother! My poor mother! Unmoving. At rest but too still!”

I don’t have to ask when the answer is lying on the ground next to an unlevel cart. I walk to his horse, a brawny steed with maintained hooves, but a wind-tossed mane. Not brushed recently but prepped and outfitted. I noticed the jester’s empty pockets when he stood. They’re hungry; they’ve gotta be. I search my bag but it doesn’t take long. It used to. I remember the last time I had to go through it. I bought it off an old cat who swiped it from a mage. Cats love mice. Mice love cheese. Cheese paid for a bag you need a ladder to get out of.

An apple finds my hand and I give it to the horse. He’s nice to wrap his thick lips about it first. I think of reaching for another, but then I reconsider the horse slobber, and switch hands. I offer the second apple to the jester.

He doesn’t take it.

I bite into the flesh instead to curb the awkward silence, but then he floods it again with shrieks. “Argh! That wagon wheel. Damnedest wagon wheel! Don’t you see?”

The cart shaft broke from possibly steep terrain, or hitting a big rock. It would take a lot of force unless the wood is old. It’s not the horse, either, but probably the big box that isn’t letting the cart have enough lenience. Shafts should remain level, otherwise they’ll do what the jester’s done: snap.

“In a hurry?” I ask.

“I am, I am!”

I can tell. He shook the wheel loose and it popped off. He broke the shaft in half, albeit perfect length for horse and cart, which narrows it down to the following: he was speeding and not watching where he was going. Almost impulsive, or mad. Distracted?

I push the bite into my cheek.“Where are you headed?” The fruit’s sweeter than I like. I always liked the green ones better. In their sourness they have their own sweet underline. I chew anyway.

“Peaceful Falkreath,” he says. “Sweet Cicero was taking Mother to her new home—her new crypt. Well, her body, anyway. She’s quite dead.”

I gesture south, the backside of the horse. “Falkreath—” then choose not adding to the distress. The closest settlement heading north would be Morthal, or Dawnstar.

I say instead, “They have a good graveyard.”

“Yes they do. Quite large and certainly lots of room for new occupants. Mother deserves the best.”

“I didn’t give my mother a proper burial,” I say.

“Oh no?”

He oddly seems sincere for one dressed to joke.

“No,” I answer.

I left her burnt corpse on the floor.

“I can help,” I stand after swallowing my second bite.

“You can!?” He says, taken back.

“It’s an easy fix but you need replacement parts.” I observe the farm up the hill. “Think they’ll have some?”

“Yes!” This Cicero exclaims. “Yes! They most definitely should! Go to the farm—the Loreius Farm. Ask for Loreius. He should have what you need.”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

Disbelief glints in his surprise, then boom. His shrieking laughter explodes from belly to mouth, careless who hears, or sees. He holds his sides, his face blushes from strain, and tears pool in his once-stormy eyes, now crinkled, and starry. I can’t believe he hasn’t heard that one before.

Cicero wipes his eyes after the long journey back to contentment. I offer the other side of the apple. I’m not hungry, but I hope I proved it’s not poisoned. Before he accepts, he reads me—my stance, my face, maybe my mind. Slower than the first time he rejected me, as if I was going to leave him, and he didn’t want to bother. Now that I’m here with clear interest, he invests, and reaches for the apple, boring his eyes into mine until I swallow and hear my spit go down my throat so loud I think the Stormcloaks could hear it between sword clashes. He takes it by the ends between his thumb and long finger, turns the apple’s whole skin toward me, then sinks his teeth where mine had been. The fruit breaks off into his mouth and the stage beneath me cracks.

He chews and swallows. “Poor Cicero will wait for you.”

I flutter a grin before heading up to this Loreius.

I have much to look at to distract me from wondering if he’s watching me. I know he is because I feel his stare but if I turn around he’ll know something more, and so I look at the flowers along the path, and pick some purple ones just because. A chicken meanders ahead and stops in front of me. I could go around but she has red feathers.

It scratches at the dirt but finds nothing. It scratches again and pecks the ground. It’s looking. It scratches deeper. And deeper. It pecks at the ground and scratches the dirt until it finds something poking out.

A nose.

It scratches around it.

An eye.

It pecks the eyeball and I look away, my face scrunched in a bad dream, trying to wake up. I look again—the chicken pecks at a pebble. I kick dirt at it and it flaps its wings to get out of my way.

I knock on Loreius’ door.

Loreius sounds married by the nagging voice on the other side of the door. She hisses at him to get the fool out of here, that if he won’t do something, she’ll get the guards to. The nasally accent doesn’t sound human. Mer noses give us a distinct voice. I think about the resemblance of a hatchet to my nose when the door swings open. A balding middle-aged man in middle-income clothes is giving me the middle finger with his mind.

“Oh for the love of Mara, what now?”

He doesn’t apologize when he sees it’s me locking eyes with his jaundice wife. They have egos like dragons, their skin shows it. Now that I’m dragonborn, maybe I have it too, but Altmer are the pissiest.

“Who are you?” He says.

“A kindly stranger,” I say. “May I buy some spare parts? There’s a man nearby in need.”

“That Cicero feller? Tell me something I don’t know.”

I could make a list.

Loreius continues, “The crazy fool’s already asked me five times. He can’t take no for an answer. He needs to leave us alone!”

“You don’t have to do anything. I just need to pay you for some parts. I can—”

“Pay me!? You think this is about money?”

I push down a huge knot in my chest that says choke him, choke him, choke him.

He says, “Have you seen the man?”

My ear catches the jester’s snickering, saying to himself “‘don’t go anywhere’…good one…” He hiccups and snorts and I almost snort too.

Loreius goes on. “He’s completely out of his head. A jester in Skyrim? There hasn’t been a merry man in these parts for a hundred years!” And on. “And he’s transporting some giant box. Says it’s a coffin. And he says he’s going to bury his mother. Mother my eye.” And on. “He could have anything in there! War contraband. Weapons. Skooma! Ain’t no way I’m getting involved in any of that!”

I fall out of comprehending the farmer’s concern. And as I want to dearly strangle him he hasn’t done anything wrong except wrong the jester. There hasn’t been someone like Cicero in Skyrim for one hundred years, he said. The words tumble between my ears over and over. I twist my stance about to see both the farmer and Cicero enough. At the hillfoot, he’s now in deep thought, talking out loud about a stew one of the inns might have. Loreius isn’t wrong; I haven’t seen anyone like him my entire life. I may never see him again for the rest of my life. Yet I feel I’ve known him as long. Where I see him I see myself following, stepping off the stage, but the strings tug. I’m stuck. I need to help him for as long as I can.

Until the strings break.

“He needs your assistance,” I say. “You don’t have to lift anything, just show me where the tools and parts are, and we’ll both leave.”

“What? Let you go through my things? To help a—a—a fool?”

I give the disheveled man a once-over with my side eye. I hate repeating myself. What’s more annoying is when he hears me but refuses to accept the simplicity of the solution. His stubbornness could rival his pride, but what accomplishments has he except marry and live in a quaint house with a bit of land to work. I blink away sleep’s drawl and let my guildmistress charm work, allowing me to disconnect and watch the jester while my mouth runs off with Loreius.

“Do the right thing,” I hear myself finally.

Loreius sighs, but I barely hear him when he starts talking again. His words chirp in a distant tree as I stare at Cicero, longer than I should, .

“You’re right. Feller might be nutters. Might not. The fact is he needs help. If I turn him away what kind of a man am I? Look, um, thanks. And I’m sorry for my unneighborly reaction. If you talk to Cicero, be sure to tell him I’ll be down soon to help him.”

I jerk out of my haze. “What?”

He closes the door behind him. “I’ll be down soon—”

“No!” I wince; Cicero probably heard that.

“But you—”

“I said I’d pay you. I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix it by yourself. It’ll take too long.”

“What a shame. But you must have tons of work around the farm today and you need the money, right?”

“Well, I admit some seasons have been tough, and winter’s coming…”

“I’m loaded.” I state the facts and hand him my satchel of coin. “Get the parts, get the tools. And you and your lovely wife won’t have to stress.”

“That’s…generous of you. Okay.”

He takes me to the side of his house, where there’s an old cart but working pieces I can use, plus extra stacked along the wall. I guess he used to have a horse, or might borrow one from a neighboring farm. It’d be cost-effective for such a small plot. Divines, _I’m_ boring! I grab at the bag of bolts and plates and put it in my bag. When Loreius finds his tools, I take them, and detach the nicest shafts and carry them and the brace, for good measure, down the hill.

“Do you need help carrying that?” Loreius asks.

Glare daggers fly when I turn back and he gets the clue.

My independence demands I let the shafts drag in the dirt behind me and leave a long note of my crooked walk. Cicero is in his head again when I meet him at the foot of the cart. He rubs his temples and scratches at his hat. A large moan lurches dead in the far brush as someone falls under a sword.

“Oh poor Mother,” he whines. “Her home seems so _very_ far.”

I’ll turn the cart south when I’m done so it’s not even further. He doesn’t seem to notice me so I move right and drop the parts by the horse, who’s a good sport with all these sudden noises.

“You’re back!” he says like I’ve left him for a week. “And you talked with Loreius?”

I kneel down and pick up a shaft to eyeball it next to the one I’ll replace.

“Yup,” I say.

Shaft’s about the right length but bowed (’tis what she proclaimed). I grab the other one and double check—it’s a match, straight and level.

He says, “You—you got them! Oh, stranger!” He claps excitedly. “How wonderful!”

I turn to tell Cicero to take the horse—

Dark mead eyes meet me without a hand’s width between us and I almost jump but I drink them in so fast I’m too intoxicated to move away. Cicero’s footsteps must not exist yet he had walked up behind me and I didn’t hear it. Me.

“How…” I start.

He wreaks of sea water and musk sunk into his clothes. A shadow of dirt nestles under his jaw and creeps around his face, smeared with sweat. I could count the pores on his balled nose and the lines on his mouth. In my stupor I wonder the taste of being arrowed by those lips.

“Mm…” I start again. “M…move. The horse. Move the horse, please.”

“Certainly!” He exclaims.

I exhale the tension and hastily drop blocks by the wheels I pull from my bag, mouthing _what is wrong with me _over and over. I run back up to the farm and get a box similar in size of the missing wheel, enough to keep the cart level while I replace it. When I return, Cicero’s supporting the cart against his back, coffin and all. Panic shoots through me. I rush down, giant crate in hand, and yell at him to get over. My boot snags in a bush and all my organs leap into my chest as the crate smacks me in the face, and I drop, tumbling across the ground until another bush catches me.

“Stranger!” Cicero calls out.

My embarrassment jolts me to stand and I shove the cart down the rest of the way with my heel before the sharp pain hits me and I coil, hiding my face as I try not to scream.

“I’m fine!” I cry out. “Just…” I take a breath. “Okay!”

And I cover my limp with small, forward strides. I push the box and tell him, again, to get over. He makes room for the box and gently sets the cart down on top.

“Sorry, the horse—my horse—got ahead and started walking away. I saw the cart tilt and…” Cicero carries his voice off and when I wince from the stab in my ankle, he squeaks. “Oh! But the kind stranger is hurt. We mustn’t have this.”

“I’m fine,” I repeat. He descends to inspect. “Don’t.” And he stops.

“As you wish,” he obeys.

He’s smaller than the Nords but I’ve seen four at a time struggle to carry a coffin.

“You kept that up pretty well,” I say. “Quick thinking.”

“Anything for Mother. And you! You are helping me. Helping me!” He rests his hands on his hips. “It has been a long, long journey, and it has been a long, long time since someone went out of their way to listen and tend to poor Cicero.” He retracts into himself for a moment, staring at nothing. “But I’m distracting you from your work. Shall we?”

We begin repairs. I swallow before I talk and clear my throat after. It would take me half the time to finish if I didn’t explain to Cicero my procedure. If he’s ever in trouble again, I want him to know how to get out of it and the tools needed to fix it.

“A wrench, if you can find one, but if you ever get a chance, buy these doo-dads called quick-pins. And you can put them here—” I tap at the shaft’s end and wave a finger at the other side. “—and there. Same place.”

“How do you know so much about carts?” He asks.

He’s kneeling beside me as I slip on a tee plate before screwing the carriage bolt. Time flies when you’re saving weird men on the side of the road. I twist the last squeeze I can get and put down the wrench. We refitted the brace and made sure it paired with the new shaft. All that’s left is to bring the horse back around, who’s now tied at the tree south of us. It has to be early evening, or close to the sun setting; I feel the oncoming growl of hunger.

“My father,” I say. “He taught me a lot.”

“A good man, no doubt.” Cicero grins.

“Yeah,” I answer, feeble to the memories. I slap my thighs. “Let’s get your mother home.”

I worry it’ll hurt again when I try to stand. I use the cart for balance and lift off one foot, then I bend the stiff out of my knees, and note the throbbing ache in my leg worsens when I’m upright. I’m about to make for the horse when Cicero holds out his hand.

“Please,” he says. “You’re in no form.”

He waits for me to take it and it might be nothing to him but me, it’s everything. A hand, gloved or not, is ornate, designed to act intimately with what it touches. If I give him my hand, I give him more than me. My hand that brought death of betrayers, offered food to the innocent, ripped the dress of my mother, reached into nothingness for my only friend. Within my palms are memories I can’t just give away. I keep my gloves on but they only keep part of me in. This should not be as complicated as I make it yet it is. He offers his to me, guarded in worn leather with gold edging. My fingers hang bare and susceptible to feel. It would not be a compromise but a sacrifice. If I’m to keep him here longer, I need to.

My hand should tremble as it slips into his rough, cool glove, but it doesn’t. Reassurance paints me calm and he sets me on a nearby rock, then kneels before me, and pulls off his gloves.

Cicero rhymes, “Kind lady ran so far. Tumble, tumble, here you are. Worry not, elf of night. Cicero will fix you right.”

The boots lost support ages ago, though I’ve only been guildmistress for a short while. It’s been someone else’s armor even when I wear it. It’s loose in places I don’t like and the boots are a size bigger than I need, yet when he undos the belts up my calf, I’m fully aware of his touch. The pressure against my skin as he tugs gently; the slide of leather going down to the tip of my toes as he takes it off. He’s extra careful to keep my foot still when he addresses the knit sock. He rests my heel on his knee and my throat swells. He reaches for his pouch and pulls clean bandages out. He begins to wrap my foot and my heart clamps onto my ribs. It’s a chilly day and I’m burning up. He starts at the ankle, clockwise twice, around my arch, then the back heel, then up the leg, and down, and back around the ankle, and down the foot, and back again, then ties it off.

I inhale. I didn’t know I held my breath.

* * *

* * *

Cicero returns my sock over his work, then the boot, and he tightens the belts. It’s the walk back from a summer day at the spring. You look back on the moment as you saddle up the horse, and wish to do it again.

I would sprain my other ankle for him.

“You made Cicero so happy,” he says, “so jubilant, and ecstatic. And more,” he offers his bare hand. “Even more. My mother thanks you, kind stranger.”

What memories lie in his palms? A pool of dreams never to be or wishes granted and misconstrued? How many years live in those hands that I want to touch, want to see. I reach out, shadowy claws to the pale. Our fingers touch and my skin sings, nerves whirring alight as I slide across the mounds. He gingerly wraps his thumb around and grips, then kisses the flat of my hand, and pulls me up.

“Igniri,” I say.

His eyebrows wrinkle upward to the peak of his hair.

He purrs, “Igniri.” He offers his arm and waves at the fixed cart. “May I offer you a lift?”

I let the walls around me melt with the trust I put into this man and realize I’m not on a stage, but in a prison, a cage that I put myself in, hung myself in. These are the strings that keep me from meeting people like Cicero: the terror of losing a friend, family, and feeling like it’s my fault. People can sense those things sometimes. It maybe why I have a scarce audience. But those that matter find ways to stick around. It may have been his smile that freed me, but those sharp eyes cut the strings.

“I know a great place for cheese pie,” he says.

I’ve never felt so alive in such a mundane happenstance.


	5. Nothing Bold Can Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri and Cicero learn things about each other. She might have found happiness at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I split this chapter because (1) I want you to have something new to read and (2) the whole one is way too long. Let me know if Cicero's interest in Igniri seems rushed or if it's just right. I didn't want to push them into "Hey I just met you and this is crazy, but here's my mother, and sanctuary." (yeah you can give me credit. I just made that up on the spot! Huzzah!)

Leaves roll across the road from the scarce I like the scent of the oncoming rain. But when the breeze calls the clouds over the sky, it doesn’t darken my world; it brightens it. Sprinkles fall onto my skin and I appreciate the refreshing kisses on my blush. I sit beside Cicero, a passenger in coach, watching the rain fall from a deep blue coating, opposing the lantern lights accompanying the stone path. We’ve stopped saying anything to each other for a minute which only feels like a blink of serenity. The wheels catch the bumps and I hear the creaking, turning wood with the axle, and worry that it’ll be too much for the new parts. I had reminded Cicero to go slower earlier, but in that I did not know if I was talking about the cart.

Every day I wanted so bad to feel something and now I’m feeling everything at once and it’s hard to control. My emotions are rabid and have become the slipperiest things to grab hold of. If I can’t do it he has to in some way. I don’t see him concerned about it. He mumbles about getting his mother to Falkreath, but he’s hungry, and rather than brave the rain to get that famous cheese pie, he steers toward Whiterun, and the blush drains to the back of my throat.

I swallow. “Can’t we make it to at least Riverwood?”

Nature’s jest transforms droplets into dollops and we’re caught in sheets of pouring water. It hits my neck and I seize in a shrug. Cicero laughs in his shower and I match his glee when he says, “This is almost wetter than swimming!”

Rain cascades down his face and drips from the tip of his nose. We could wait for the deluge to pass and keep going, but he says he’s concerned it’s too much for the coffin, and the box won’t hold any longer. After the ship ride, he doesn’t want to chance it.

I do.

“We can just ask a stable boy to use one of the stalls,” I say. “Your mother will stay dry and we can wait it out…out of the city.”

“Don’t be shy around me, kind mistress. We’ll only be going to the inn, to keep warm, to satiate hunger, to—” He sees my eyebrow arch so high he could walk under it. “—We’re just going to wait out the storm by the fire. How’s that? Then on our way to Mother’s final resting place and pie heaven. But I can’t leave Mother out of my sight. Nooo. No. We have to get her into the city.”

“Well,” I trail off and notice the guards crossing the outer gate. A big haul like this will be extra suspicious with guild armor and a—what did Loreius call him? Merry. I can’t deal with extra attention now. Not after meeting this man. Imerciless could find me, one of the guards could recognize me, start chanting Dragonborn. Why’d it have to be Whiterun?

Lightning flashes behind the mountain. Cicero hurries the horse toward the stables. He jumps off and knocks on the horseman’s door, holding his arms together across his chest, water dripping off the ends of his pronged hat. At first there’s no answer, but on the second knock, the door swings open. A swarthy man stands in front of dim candle light.

“We’re closed,” he says and looks Cicero down and up.

“Might I borrow a cover?” Cicero calls over the noise spattering against the rooftops. “Or some such to protect my precious cargo? I have coin!”

The man looks me over, then our cart, and once the money is in his pocket, he becomes promptly accommodating, even helping us secure the large drape of skin we purchased, then Cicero takes us, and the “precious cargo,” up the hill while I dread the shaft breaking again on top of being seen. I don’t know where Cicero can possibly park this thing.

“Can’t we leave it with the horse guy?” I say.

“My job is to see Mother’s safe and I mustn’t delegate that to just anyone.”

“I’m sure she would be fine.”

He looks onward but crouches his head, a cat preparing to lunge, making his last words absolute, with a lower, much darker voice than I thought he could ever produce.

“She stays with me,” he growls.

Okie dokie!

I pat a ditty on my knees as Cicero convinces the guards to let us through. My hair conveniently bothers me and I mess with it to hide my profile behind my elbows as I squeeze water from the ends. The nearest guard tries to get a look as we roll along. But I pretend to converse with the jester about how hungry I am.

“I could eat a beach full of horkers,” he responds gleefully, as if that fracture of anger was nothing.

Whiterun at night would be beautiful if I wasn’t on edge. I tell him to park by the smithy but he takes it into the market. The wheels barely make it around the well.

“It’ll fit,” he says.

But that’s not what I thought. I hide my face in my hands. I clutch my ears when he knocks over boxes of someone’s food stall.

“Oh my gods,” I mutter.

Surprisingly, it went better than I forsaw. Only one of the guards yells at us to move but it takes Cicero’s charm to convince him we’d be gone as soon as the rain lets up. He also pulled the in-mourning card and the guard mentions his sister-in-law’s half-brother’s uncle just died, so he understands completely. I throw one hundred gold at him just in case.

Cicero jumps down and offers his hand to help me down. It’s not a far drop considering what I’ve been through, but what man has ever offered me just their hand? He keeps doing it like I need the practice. Is he easy to trust or is he just helpful because I helped him? Who is this Cicero?

I let my weight rest on my good leg and I hop down by the jester, my anchor. When I’m comfortably away from torchlight fastened in the many store exteriors, I see the faint glow behind Cicero’s silhouette fade away to the evening blue.

At this point I wish I hadn’t been abrupt with the jarl’s underlings and I lean into believing that as long as we don’t go up to the castle, I’ll be fine. I slink my face out of sight when we pass a guard. Everyone should be home or in the barracks. and scarcely anyone will be at the inn. Cicero and I might even have it all to ourselves. As I limp through the market, I watch citizens covering their heads and running toward the Bannered Mare. Not _all_ to ourselves, it seems.

We walk up the steps in the pouring cold but crackling fire from the brazier, and enter the tavern of bright gold and bustling, hustling noise. A partly good singing bard plucks a stringed instrument, but it’s the barricade of people blocking the entrance that fills me with intolerance and aversion. They tower Cicero and I, strapping Nords who’ve taken off their armor, and hold tankards in both hands. They either sing along or cheer for more.

“Let’s try some place else,” I try to nudge Cicero but he’s solid, and denies me by moving further into the building.

He weaves in and disappears into the crowd.

“Cicero?” I call out.

A man with red cheeks turns to me. “Hey, close the door. You’re letting in—hic—the draft!”

I turn my head away. “Sorry.” I also wish I hadn’t left my hood in the cistern.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the drunk continues. “I could show you—”

“No thanks,” I cut in and shut the door tight.

Smoke rises to the roof and exits out the roof slot where the rain can’t come in. It almost masks the creamy musk of aged heaven but I focus. I even forget about my ankle as I try to copy Cicero’s trail. Between the waists and underarms of merchants, travelers, and soldiers is a large fire pit, rectangular, framed by the wood flooring but bordered with stone, and not strong enough flame to cause disaster. Women sit on the benches, some children cross-legged on the floor, but most men are grouped together based on their clothes, talking shop, or about their last duty.

Hehe. Duty.

I admire the striped rugs as I wipe my feet to no avail. My leather’s soaked most of the rain already but I still drip, and am glad I’m not in some Dwemer place where I could slip and break my tail like that last mission with Bryn and Karliah. I can be a klutz at times.

Someone catches my hand and pulls me through a group of people discussing the best mead—“Sorr—!” I say in passing—and into the arms of Cicero. My breath quickens with my chest against his and I almost panic knowing he can feel my breasts on him.

“Found us a seat!” He smiles. “Sit, sit, sit, sit, sit!”

It doesn’t phase him, how he churns me without boundaries. We’re at the bar now, facing a cove of shelving with random pots and ingredients that look washed. From last week. I already spotted the cheese. I sit on the stool furthest left and Cicero squats on one leg, his ankle over his thigh, pretending to sit in a chair since the only other stool is occupied by a man in a brown coat. The bar maiden almost passes us up but Cicero waves her down and she fills up two tankards.

“Hello,” he says. “I know you’re busy but might we see the menu?”

I grin but keep it to myself. I don’t know how long he’s been in Skyrim, but we’re not known for luxurious hospitality.

“We don’t have a menu,” she says, tiredly.

Her shoulders slump and sleeplessness has sunken her eyes. She’s the only one I’ve seen working unless someone’s in the kitchen.

Cicero slumps onto the counter. “Oh,” he pouts.

She must’ve taken pity on him because she tries to lift her voice. “We do have some stew left. But I think the last customer took the last of the meat. All that’s left are carrots and some leeks.”

I ask, “Are you making more?”

“We ran out of game the last batch. And honestly, when the storm hit, we haven’t had time to do anything else but stoke the fire and keep the mead flowing.”

I wouldn’t ask unless I already had a plan. Normally I don’t do this for people, especially in a place so busy. But there’s this cute boy who might cry from starvation, so I open my bag and dig through, looking for something until I start yelling at it. “Where’s the meat?”

It yells back, _What meat?_

“Any meat!” I answer.

I look over at Cicero and scoff. “Bags.” And he gives me back a look of excited inquiry.

It throws up a young buck, Cicero jumps out of the way, and its body lands over half the bar counter, then falls into the bar maiden, then slumps to the floor. For it being so warm in the room, she’s frozen, staring off into my bag or toward my bag. I can’t tell.

“Is that enough?” I say.

Cicero turns his grin into half his face. “Fascinating magic trick!” He sits on his pretend stool. “What else you got in there?”

“Moldy cheese,” I say.

We wait for our food as we slowly dry off. I’ll forgive her if she has to trudge through everyone here just to get to the kitchen first, but Cicero’s beginning to look sick. And I’m getting an itch. The longer I stare at it the more I have to have it, so I sneak over to the shelves. I’m a bit surprised there aren’t people stuffed back here.

“What are you doing?” he hiss-whispers.

“My thing,” I hiss back.

“What’s your thing?”

“Ssh.”

I take the wedges and the wheel and drop them into my bag, save one. A rich table cheese I found best suited with bread, which I also acquired before breaking off a piece and offering it to him.

“If they ask, cry ‘rats’ and no one will eat here again except us.”

Cicero snorts.

When I go to sit down, one of the men facing the fire backs up and absently sits right as I am. He bumps into me, excuses himself, then sits anyway.

“Um,” I pause. “Hello. This is for the bar. Bar sitters only.”

His beard likely sees me first before he turns and says, “This seat wasn’t being used, elf. Now it is.”

Cicero taps his shoulder. “Give the lady her seat back.”

“She can sit on the bench with the other mares.”

I pull my mouth inward and bite on my lip hard. I can take the elf shots. Make fun of my ears, my skin, my eyes—I don’t care. But there are certain things a Nordling woman should never hear and he just insulted all of them. My cheeks must be radishes pulled fresh out of the ash. I think of all the ways to degrade this shitpile and when I come up with a good one Cicero sweeps in instead.

“Stand, heathen,” he says with subtle malice, “or you won’t have half the body that pleasures you.”

The man jumps to his feet and towers over Cicero, glowering, fisting his drink as if to use it as a club.

“Why don’t I smash you flat so we have another place to sit on?” He snarls.

I slowly reach for my bow. No one has noticed the tension yet; that could be good or bad. Cicero, who should be worried, as vulnerable as he looked when we met, pops with laughter.

“Kill me?” Cicero giggles.

He waves me down. A signal? I see the stool. It’s empty. Oh! I hop back onto my seat. Mine.

“You can’t kill me before I kill you,” Cicero stiffens with the same dark voice he used on me.

He stares up at the beast, a troll to a fox, with such intensity that I grow nervous for the man. I fidget with my glove, bothered by the clamminess beneath the leather. My other hand’s still resting on my bow, though at this proximity, I should just grab an arrow, but I plan on jumping out of the strike zone.

Troll man takes a step back after careful scrutiny and bumps into me again. He glances back.

“Look at that,” I say. “Seat’s taken again.”

He waves me off and struts somewhere else to be an ass. I blow out all the air I was holding and release my bow arm. Adrenaline waves subside and I’m left weakened.

“Talos’ taint, man.” I plop my forehead on the counter. “You’re one lucky fuck.”

“It’s not luck,” Cicero says.

I roll over to see him. He’s even cute sideways.

“What’d you mean?” I ask.

“You see that man over there?” Cicero’s eyes go right as he munches on cheese and I follow them to the table in the corner. “Lots of armor, huge sword.” When I answer “yeah” he says, “He’s compensating. Hasn’t killed a thing. I can see it in his eyes.”

“He looks pretty brazened to me.”

“Oh no. No. You’d be mistaken. I have a sense for these things.”

“You can tell?”

“And quite well.” He taps his nose. “He’s no killer. Know what I learned when I first saw you?”

I swallow but the tightness sticks. “What?”

Cicero smirks and drinks his ale.

“What?” I insist but an arm slides between us with our order.

“Vegetable stew,” she says, then drops the spoons in the gravy. “Would you like anything else?”

I’ll take an answer but hot food and sweet aromatic flavors hit me and suddenly a beach full of horkers sounds good. We dig into our full bowls of stew. We couldn’t wait for the kitchen help to dress the kill and restock the pot. Admittedly I’m fine with just vegetables. It’s easier to chew and I don’t have to pick between my teeth after. Cicero must’ve failed spoon holding when he was a child and gulps his down like a cup of water. He slams the bowl down and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

I push over my bowl and insist.

He slams that down too.

I don’t need to eat. I can wait.

After our refill of ale, we’ve had time to ask questions that didn’t involve other people, or broken carts. He tilts his head into his hand and asks me about my life. I tell him some and leave out the details. In minutes I summarize my childhood and in a breath I avoid the pain altogether, however the more he’s interested the more I want to tell the truth.

“So after she died, I had to grow up, and leave town,” I exhale. “Moved to Riften.”

“And your father?” He asks.

“Same,” I say.

Though it wasn’t the same at all.

“Riften’s awfully far,” he notes. “What have you been up to since?”

“Nothing as interesting as you,” I charm my way out.

We act like we’re alone. Surrounding parties are muted background noise. Anyone passing is a blur in the slurry of other human-shaped molds. We even ignore the bar maiden now. Eventually Cicero is able to grab a real stool and sit with his full attention on me, eyes snared when I tell him, “I admire you.”

He makes a face, one of confusion, then one appreciative, yet pensive.

“Why?” he says, then sips his ale.

“How, even in her death, you still take care of your mother.”

“I live to serve,” he says, lips curling. “After I’m long dead I’ll still have purpose.”

“Purpose?” I say.

“Yes, mistress, or else I would not be here. _You_ would not be here.” He pokes the table.

I trace circles in the counter. “I like to think there’s a reason for life; for death.”

He chimes, “No one knows the sure and set for we know not, the why or yet.”

“Who said that?” I ask.

“I don’t know,”He drinks. “Me or the ale.”

I watch his fingers unfold around the tankard and rest over the counter’s edge. I hope eventually they’ll find their way to my knee that I have strategically angled to make me unavoidable, even touch by mistake. It’s a dumb plan, but after a few drinks, they’re the only plans.

I think of death and am sent back to Windhelm. The boy looks up at me wanting me to kill, to end a life to save others.

“Is that purpose?” I mutter, though I don’t mean to say it out loud.

“There is no greater purpose than to serve,” he answers.

I don’t argue but I don’t need to tell him what I really know. How I know killing serves a purpose, not just living by serving. One kill to save many. Killing many to save one. Is it the same or different? Is it different or something else entirely?

“I haven’t found mine yet,” I say. “I suppose I haven’t done enough to find out.”

One might tip toe around the discussion further but Cicero seems to prefer getting to the point, and like a knife through the heart, he asks, “what have you done to try?”

Regret swells inside until it almost bursts, but I hold in the pain, the secrets I haven’t told him. But even what I have done is hollow. They were acts for me, not to benefit anyone. But if I hadn’t I’d probably be dead. Then again if I hadn’t I wouldn’t have gotten arrested. Is there a balance we should keep between selfless and selfish? At what point is it poisonous to our health to do too much or too little of each?

“When have you served yourself?” I ask.

“What?” He straightens in his seat, trying to be taller than my slouch.

“You could’ve died putting your needs over your mother’s. Not eating?”

“Cicero really wasn’t thinking about food at the time,” he answers.

“Who doesn’t think about food? You’re in Skyrim. We’re always hungry. Always hunting.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

I’ve been like that a few times. When life is so dull food has no taste. When I’ve profoundly hated myself after I leveled my village. I couldn’t eat. Then I think back and immediately think forward. Divines. Did he kill his mother?

He hasn’t been remorseful or sad. No, no. That’s not fair. Many Nords show grief shortly before they turn a funeral into a nightlong binge of dancing and drinking. Skyrim’s not without unfortunate events and maybe it’s made us accustomed to accepting it faster. Everybody dies so we get over it quickly. But should it be that way? Or am I horribly drunk to think if there was one person in my life that I loved, I would never get over their death. Would I cry endlessly despite my hope of an afterlife or would I fall prey to death being unvarying as well?

“My mother didn’t just die,” I let slip. I turn the tankard around in my hands. “She was killed. I don’t like to talk about it. Mora, I don’t like to talk. This has—you make me—I have never talked this much about anything’s anything. And here I am telling you about my mother.” I force a laugh and slap the counter.

“Cicero understands,” he gives me a sympathetic look he might not think I see out of the corner of my eye. “But is that what’s holding you back?”

“From what?” I feign puzzlement but I know exactly what he means.

“Living.”

“I tried to start,” I drink the last sip and stare at the shine at the bottom. “Got lost.”

“Could make a do list.”

I cover my mouth in case I barf instead of laugh, but it’s the latter, and I’m glad because I get to see him smile back, and bite his lower lip before taking another drink. I envy the drops on his tongue and wish he’d drink me instead. I brew a response, but when I go to speak, bootsteps march in my ears that I can’t ignore. Bodies form behind Cicero, a veil of blue, and chainmail. They’re doubled up but once my vision narrows in, there’s only two, and behind them is the troll.

“We don’t want your kind here,” the left one says.

Cicero rolls his eyes and plays with the spoon in his bowl.

“Did you hear me, runt? You stink of Imperial filth.”

My stupor drains into a sewer of frustration when I recognize the Stormcloak colors at last. It’s too late to hide. Owls spotting the mouse in their barn. They look right at me and Cicero doesn’t exist to them anymore.

“You!”

The right one whistles through two fingers, obnoxiously loud. I grab my bow. Someone else grabs it first. I pivot—more Stormcloaks join and press me into moving closer to Cicero. I’d thank them but I taste revenge, metallic and warm. Or I bit my tongue.

“You sent my brothers to their death!”

I don’t deny it. “In fairness, I was to die too.”

Cicero exclaims playfully. “My, my, mistress. Cicero must be quite interesting, then. And curious. So curious to what you have done.” He backs into the counter, casually leaning, and not at all threatened, but grinning, dare I assume eager.

I had less than an evening where I lost sight of fear and anger and could be present in the now rather than stuck replaying old tunes. Yet once again I’m here, facing down the misery I bring, and dragging another innocent with me. Cicero doesn’t deserve this and I can’t let him meet the dog’s fate. He’s sweet and loyal; charming and kinda scary. He stood up for me so I could sit down. A fox not intimidated by bullies. I had saved a fistful of gold for the tavern’s bed tonight. And tomorrow night if I got extra lucky. But I guess it’s not about luck. It’s about having sense. What did he sense about me? I have no idea. But I have a sense about them. They want only me. And I have a sense about him.

He’s a survivor.

I punch the closest guy, then knee him in the stomach when I grab his shoulders and pull him into me.

“RUN!” I yell.

Cicero jumps in despite me and runs something into his gut. He folds and stumbles back, then blue becomes wet red. I see a black dagger in his hand and a spoon in the other before I see stars. Something flat and metal struck my head hard. Men tackle me to the ground. Pain shoots up my leg first, then shoulder when it smacks down on the scratchy woven rug. Screams pervade the tavern. Light flitters across the teal and orange threads I’m pinned against. I know guards are coming. An arm chokes me; I latch on, digging nails into skin and muscle. Someone roars. Then doesn’t and the arm slacks. Cicero hauls me up and I see a break in the hysteria. The door’s wide open. We can both make it. I step over bodies barely dead enough to pool blood. A spoon is lodged in the troll’s eyeball, his face pinned in agony. I hear families hiding in the kitchen, some racing up the stairs. We dart outside--

A large Nord comes out from the left and swings down his two-handed sword. Cicero steps into his opening. His arm stabs six times before the man could get in one. He drops to his knees. Cicero brings around the knife and slices open his neck and pushes him down flat, knee in his back. I had recognized him, the drunk man at the door.

Former tavern patrons stand with the guards, armed, and surrounding us. At least the rain’s stopped. I grip Cicero’s arm. I squeeze so tight I don’t want to forget how real he is. My ears intercept bows stretching in the blackness and I glimpse beyond the melee and see gleams of arrows not aimed at me.

I pull Cicero behind me. No time to breathe. I just aim and—

“**FUS!**”

—guards fly higher than Torygg, in parting waves of bodies and weapons. Beyond the scramble of men, the horse and cart wait patiently.

I snatch Cicero’s coat and push him down the stairs. He tumbles into a forward roll, jumps to his feet, and bolts for the cart. I chase after. Fire seizes up my leg and I grit my teeth. I spot the fallen archers and squat low on my good leg to rip a bow from one, then jump onto the skin cover in the back right as Cicero snaps the reins. I lurch backward and the skin caves to my fall. I slide off the back and grab for anything. I get the tailboard but I slip. My back crashes into the dirt, the cover twisted around me. I flail to get up, get it off. I lose balance. I fall. I roll one way and it’s off one leg. I kick the other leg. My foot protests but I kick and kick and—free! I scramble with a gimping hop then into a full sprint. Down the road. More men flank me. I reach for arrows. I can’t feel any.

Shit!

They must’ve fell out.

Cicero’s at the gate already. His horse whinnies. My boots pound the soaked path but my bandages pound worse. Puddles spatter me in mud. My chest tightens. The cold air hurts as I gasp. I feel if I shout one more time I’ll faint. But I can. One more time. There are men on my heel but Cicero’s penned in.

“Barricaded!” Cicero cries. “My sweet Mother. What to do!?”

I limp past the cart, take my greatest full breath, and “**FUS!**” the gate breaks open, spraying chips as it swings off its hinges. Cicero cracks the reins and he’s off, veering right, and I hope they can’t get the outer gate closed. I hear an ax cut air and I duck and run. The world spins and I want to throw up. My vision funnels. I can see a break in the wall past the gate. My back crawls, knowing death is at my heels, gnarling, snapping. I run up wooden steps to a makeshift rampart. Below me is a broken battlement and beyond that the road by the stables, to freedom. Fields of blue and green and the wide night sky with broken clouds on the horizon. I jump. Hands grab me but I’m already falling. I hit the rocks below with another guard on my back. Crushed on the slippery ground beneath me. The wind knocked out of me. I gasp only I can’t. I reach for the ledge and try to pull myself from under him. He squeezes my ribs—he’s still conscious. I pull anyway. Cicero breaches the last wall and races past the Khaajit and the stables. He heads south toward Riverwood, horse hooves heavy in full gallop, thumping in my head until he’s in the fields, crossing the stream, gradually fading gaining distance, and never looking back. My heart digs itself a hole but my brain refuses to quit. The guard presses all his weight down, into my back, my head. Moss rubs my face and stone digs into my cheekbones. I think how fast I could run, how far I could go. I growl and spit through my teeth, straining to get out. I could easily burn them all. But the smell. My promise.

“Dragonborn!” A woman shouts.

More pin me—a bug on a slab but smashed by hammers. Their stinking appendages hinder my view and I can’t see their faces; I can’t look back. A torch approaches from the edge of my eye. Bright yellow in the dark blue. Then the guards move me, a puppet, a doll, and turn me around so that I can see her. Cold steel kisses my neck and lingers.

Whiterun guards walk alongside Irelith the merciless. She struts up and plops a boot onto part of the rock that bludgeoned me. I can see up her tunic, half-expecting a set of balls.

“Is this how your life works?” she says.

“Go **fus** yourself,” I say. The word puffs in her face, as casual as from a smoking pipe.

She wipes her mouth as if to take me, a crumb, off her lip after she’s had her fill.

“If it was up to me, your body would be made into a giant’s loincloth.” She stands and orders the guards to take me to the dungeon. “I’ll update the jarl.”

“So you _can_ do your job,” I jeer at her.

“And recommend he melt the key to make a nail for her coffin.” She glances back.

A guard asks, “What about the other one?”

“Send word to the rest of the jarls. There’s a homicidal maniac loose.”

* * *

From the Recipe Box belonging to <strike>Sigyn Sunbane of Bloodblomyr</strike> Igniri of the Hood

**Iggy’s Vegetable Soup**

_Yields: 10 servings for normal people, 2 servings otherwise_

_Tools: fire spit, large cooking pot, stir spoon, flat board, knife (if camping: sturdy sticks to hold fire spit)_

_Ingredients:_

_(Ask Ri’Saad near Whiterun for non-Nord ingredients. Unless he’s dead. Then ask Delvin. He never dies.)_

  * _2 thumb sizes of **Butter** and/or oil_
  * _2 **Garlic** cloves, minced (which means double triple it)_
  * _2-3 **Leeks**, sliced, white/light green parts_
  * _2-4 **Carrots**, depending on crop this year (makes two handfuls)_
  * _2 **Ash Yams** (won’t disintegrate like sweet potatoes…unless they do…then they had it comin’)_
  * _2 tankards, or half the pot of **Broth** (chicken or vegetable)_
  * _2 handfuls of **Farro** (or hearty grain on hand)_
  * _4 small **tomatoes** (unless you can help it, then throw this part out)_
  * _pinches of **Salt** by taste_
  * _Ground **Pepper** by taste_
  * _Fresh **Dill** by taste_
  * _**Mustard Powder** by taste_
  * _half a hand of **Parsley**, chopped (not the hand!)_

_Build average fire. Heat pot on fire spit secured by medium-long s-hooks. Have short and long hooks on standby. Heat butter in pot, throw in leeks and garlic, a pinch of salt, let sweat. Sing two songs. Drop in carrots and yams, cook through one more song. Stir sometimes. Add broth until it starts small bubbles on side. Hang pot on long S-hook if you’re impatient. Add tomatoes and farro. Spread out fire if possible, or put back on medium hook. Cover and let cook for a conversation or two with yourself or… Add seasonings. Parsley last. Leave spices out for guests._

_To store: let cool in pot and seal lid. Find coolest room, usually where spiders hide, but while traveling, a cave or snow bank works. If camping, keep leftovers far away from you in case of beasts. Can leave overnight. Serve leftovers for breakfast._

_Optional: when adding meat, like deer leg, add water in pot first and let meat cook bone-in for a long while. Add all things after. Shred meat off bone. Should come off easier than flaying a charred skeever._


	6. Los Daar faal Lokraan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri spends time in the clinker and makes a new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is based off a famous poem, but there was no word for "lark" in dragonspeak.

They lift me up and take me to the dungeon. I don’t fight it. I go through the motions as if it’s routine until they tell me they’re going to take off my clothes. Their hands crawl over me, to paw me, violate me, and strip me down to wear a potato sack and footwraps.

“What’s wrong with your ankle?” the guardsman asks after all is done.

I stand in front of his table. It’s free of clutter and holds a large open book of names and a burning candle half-spent next to his glove and inkwell. Cicero’s in danger as long as I’m in here. While they had sorted what they thought was stolen and what might be legitimately owned, I had been glancing at every exit and plotting the easiest route out.

I don’t answer.

He’s been jotting down my information for the past hour. Five minutes on my clothes, the rest on my inventory bag. I whistled at it so it’d know to look normal when they opened it. It’s still a big bag without the magic.

“You sprain it?”

I don’t answer.

“How’d you run on a busted leg?” He waves his quill at me.

“Drunk,” I say.

On what, I don’t say out loud because at this point he doesn’t actually give a shit. I can tell he’s bored and is looking for a story to entertain him. He thinks eventually I’ll have plenty to say when I give up and accept my sentence, whatever it is. I bet Imerciless is loving this since her life is even more mundane than mine. The way my life really works is the higher up I go, the smaller I feel. And she’s never been more than a—what is she? Housecarl?

Cicero must be in Falkreath by now. Guards everywhere. I hear the jarl is an Imperial stand-in, though. I have to warn him, anyway. A killer is a killer no matter the side.

The warden locks me in the cell but I’ve never left my cage. It’s the first room in a long hall and though the dungeon itself is inviting, with a red runner down the hall, and horn chandeliers, my hole is pitch, and far from any flame. I have a cot in the corner, a table and stool, but I should have noticed the naked dead body first, and didn’t. It’s a Nord. In a loincloth.

I scowl through the cell bars, less pleasant than my invisible glass. They keep the dungeon warm enough to not shiver, but cool enough they don’t sweat in armor. I watch them toss my stuff in a far room and hear the lock of a masterful device click. I’ll crack it in seconds soon. I scratch at my hair when the rover turns away. I feel up my fibers and find one of the many lockpicks holding my braids in. I bend the pick tip into a small L and slip it in the lock. The lock is the standard kind used in Riften’s dungeon. A warded lock, only needing one or two picks to get through. No tension rods. They can be a pain in the ass if you’re not me.

The lock pops loud. I freeze. Heart pounding against its own cage. The guard jerks around.

“What are you doing!?” He shouts and storms toward me.

I drop the pick and jump away as he swings open the door. I step on the body and fall back. The guard charges. I go for a heel kick but I don’t see the other guard behind him. They split and grab my legs. Ankle burns. More hands where I don’t want. They sandwich me with the dead Nord. They yell in my ear but I don’t know who’s talking.

“Where did you get this!?”

“Check her hair!”

They tug and pull. All I see are their crests and chainmail. I yell but words don’t come out, only cries. My head stings and throbs as they rip out chunks of hair.

“Fuck it. Let’s just cut it off!”

“NO!” I scream and inhale to shout but one gags me with his hand. I bite down on metal. It does nothing to him.

“Gag her!”

“I’m trying!”

His fingers dig into my tongue. His thumb grips under my jaw. I cough, like I’m gagged with something else and I feel gross now.

“Get more men down here!”

The guard over me has me pegged in the corner now as he knocks my head against the stone wall to take out my braids.

A woman’s voice bellows, “What in the Divines’ names are you doing!?”

Enter Imerciless to kick me while I’m down.

“She was trying to escape!”

I try to peer through any space I find to see her.

“You didn’t check her hair for lockpicks? Are you juvenile? She’s a woman! There’s always something hidden on them!”

My head throbs and I think the knock broke skin. I feel a trickle down my neck that I hope is just falling hair. He runs his hands through one more time and stands away, letting the jarl’s sword step in.

I shift into a ball. I don’t even look at her anymore, just the line where the floor and wall meet by my bed. The guards may have left me alone now but I still feel them on me. Their fingers in places. His hand—I taste the metallic, and the bumps of the links. How my throat swelled and plugged my nose and I couldn’t breathe.

My eyes sting and I hide my face in my arms.

“I don’t think she’ll be a problem now,” the dark elf notes. “Sweep the room. You might’ve dropped one.”

“Yes, milady.”

I hear feet scuffling about but I prefer to stay in the black of my lap where my ass is numb from the cold, hard rock, and my thighs are warm from my quiet sobs.

Hours I feel have only been minutes. I’ve long stopped crying but my eyes are dry and swollen. I hit my head against the wall and it hurts. There’s little resistance. Still, the pain could be the friend I need when my mind won’t shut up. It’ll never shut up. It runs the scenarios I fear the most. Cicero’s a prisoner. He was shot fleeing. Eaten by wolves. Ran into a mammoth. The giant punted him into the sun. I’m wrong about his survivalism. I’m wrong.

I relive his final moments. I watch him run into the shadows, how he carries off all the colors of the world, and drains Skyrim of meaning. It withers in my hands, the map I could have drawn with him to mark our adventures. A checklist of things to do before I see Sovngarde, or where ever a fool like me goes after I trick a jester to take a chance with me. All this over a simple curiosity that had to be itched.

I deserve this.

I keep saying it as I pay each day for the bodies that lie in the tavern. I wish to have seen what he did, how he moved, how someone like him could possibly be so cheerful, so patient with me, and so quick to murder. The guards drop off bread but I feed off brewing rage. I am too still, too in my head, too confined. They have to let me out sometime yet no one comes for me. I deserve to be alone. Since Day One I’m given no chance to defend myself, no way to earn my way out, or pay my way. Imerciless knows time is my most valuable currency for my crimes. The crimes I’m merely accomplice to. I’ve murdered no one yet maybe I should. As I stare at my bed, old, smelly, and scattered, Cicero’s words weave through the bars. In and out and in again.

_What have you done to try?_

Aventus meets my gaze, the same ale eyes as Cicero’s.

_Kill Grelod._

Orphans are met with the recurring fate that they can never be happy. And even if someone were to look and see the horrors they keep, they don’t care.

I am an orphan. I care.

Perhaps there is no meaning in life for those who abuse its riches. But in death, it’s all they’ve earned, and I think I can find purpose in helping the gods deliver their income.

I hadn’t planned on leaving soon; I expected to stay until winter, or when the jarl decided his dead guardsmen needed justice. I would understand. But, of course, I’d decline politely, just as they declined me my joy, so short a time stolen from me.

But today is strange.

It’s the third week and the guards receive a visitor during their turnover.

“Get it!” one of the guards trumps breaks through the dungeon following a hen flapping away, and clucking in protest.

“It won’t let me,” the guard says.

His arms reach out for the chicken but when he gets close the hen clucks again and flaps away closer to me. I go to my knees and level myself with its head. A red hen absently bocks at me and scratches near the bars. She must be the new way we do dinner now. But she’s peculiar. Peck-uliar. Peck…peck…peck.

The guard snatches her and she flails about, screeching and clucking and flapping. Trying to get away. Big bad guard feeling up chickens now. Feathers fly and after several seconds of a grapple fight, the guard loses, the hen takes flight down the hall.

“Forget it,” the guard goes back to his post, by the main door judging by distance and foosteps. “Dumb bird.”

“Bested by a chicken, Bjorn?” the guard by inventory leans back in his chair.

“Shut up and go home to your wife.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. She made biscuits for us.”

Their chatter wanes behind closing doors and I stare at a gift outside my cell. A cluster of feathers for me to try. A challenge indeed, but won’t work in the door lock. I hadn’t been trying as hard as I should, maybe to wait out the sentence to start a clean slate before I invest my skills in more than thievery. I was stressed, couldn’t think clearly knowing Cicero was a short run’s distance from me. I’ve had time to calm, time to plan. Instead of wallowing in a coil, I should have looked at the room more carefully. There’s a grate in the corner I noticed a week ago when they moved the body. The maggots were the grossest part. But nothing the guard gave me could break me out. I could’ve strangled them with my footwraps but they never got close to me again. What I really wanted was the freedom to walk out the front door with all my things. But after almost a month, I don’t see that happening. My hair yearns to be pulled back again, taut but not tied. Still free but not hindering my sight. I take all the feathers to the grate and hope one of them lets my fly out of my coop.

_Click._

The grate creaks and drops down from its hinge. Even if Cicero had told me the kind of day I was going to have, I would have told him he was full of Ulfric. But I thank the chicken regardless and carry myself down to the sewer. It’s even worse in the tunnel. I cover my mouth before the sour piss smell overwhelms me. It’s a maze getting through. I glance up and find other grates from the dungeon. One in particular has a chicken on the other side staring at me.

“Bock,” it says.

Then it swaggers away.

I continue until I meet the end, a grate into a darkened room, maybe a closet. There are wooden boxes nearby and I stack them to get up and through to what I had hoped to be the evidence room.

I’m in an alcove connected to a long room with beds and wardrobes. Men wearing sleep shirts and braies occupy half the beds, which means the other half are on watch. I reflect on the irony and take on the challenge. I move to the less populated section and browse someone’s wardrobe. It reeks of body odor, moreso the cloth under the scales and mail.

I step out of the alcove in yellow and gray, with the helmet obscuring my peripherals, but it’s only because they leave no room for my nose. I strap on a standard sword and walk out toward the front.

“Hey!”

I halt but my pulse keeps walking into a panic. It’s hard to breathe and even harder for my elven skin to stop from sweating. I try to about-face but I never learned and almost trip over my own boot. The final door to my freedom is five strides away. If I have to I’ll run. I’ll beat him over the head with this helmet and **fus** out of here. The guard holds a small cage. The red chicken pecks at the bars. I know the feeling, chick-a.

“You heading out?” He asks.

I think of only a couple excuses to say before I remember some guild advice. One thing they taught me besides the obvious is this: keep it simple.

“Yeah,” I grunt.

“Take this infernal beast with you.” He shoves it into me and I have no choice. “We finally captured it but I think it wanted to be.”

“What?”

“Like when we laid the trap, it just walked into it and sat. I’m tellin’ ya. The chicken knows something.”

I inspect the cage. The red hen’s calm, nestled into herself. She glances at me with one black eye and runs her beak across the bars. Maybe it knows how to play the dulcimer.

I nod the rest of my way out of the barracks, but not before I sneak a look at the tome of prisoners. I scan down and up and I’m fourth to last. He spelled my name wrong. I write myself out, signing with the same quill he shook at me with. Another book lies open on the table, a manual for writing official documents, and next to it are letters to jarls. They describe Cicero in detail and attach a sketch of him in the crudest form. I can’t burn them; they’ll just make more. But if I take all but one, then he’ll have to copy the remaining.

I feel the chicken grinning with me when I leave at last.

Crisp air slaps me like a cheated lover with the morning sun’s javelins plunging down. I squeeze my eyes shut. Blinding, scornful weather. I could have waited for nightfall, but why spend one more second that could be the second that saves Cicero? I breathe in the cold and vigor restores. Even clad in chains, I am renewed. Jail had left me to run away with my thoughts and I have found meaning in life.

It begins outside the city gates. I put the small cage down by the stream at the southern wall. A nice place away from the cat people. I lift the door and the hen walks out free as a mer. It’s in this small task of satisfaction I confirm purpose comes from freeing others. Any beast or babe does not deserve my lifelong infliction, but grace. I must give thanks to the one who supplied my freedom. I haven’t eaten, I barely drank, but I run regardless. My ankle’s healed but I don’t chance the rugged terrain long. I take the road but I weigh more than I’m used to and it’s more trudging than running. My armor slinks, clinking along with the beat of a faint clucking.

I slow at the bridge and turn. The hen catches up.

“You can’t follow me,” I say and swoosh it away.

I break into a jog and only cross the stream before I check again. It stares up, twitching its head about.

“Get the fuck outta here!” I flap my arms and charge at it.

It scuttles away only to return when I walk.

I stop and yell, “No! You’ll die with me.”

“Bock,” it says.

I walk up to it and it runs circles around me as I try to lunge for it. My nostrils flare and I sink my fingers further into my fist.

“Fuck!” I punch the air. “Fine!”

I can’t tell it to do what it wants with its free will. But some things that are given such gifts are stupid with them. How stupid am I? Escaping jail with someone else’s uniform and a rogue chicken. Closest town is Riverwood and the dragon droppings are the opposite way. Can’t get spare clothes from either unless I look desperate. South it is.

When I reach the river I ditch the guard look and dip my toes in the water. It’s cold…too cold to bathe the incarceration off. I splash my face a few times and let the droplets fall down my chin. My reflection ripples on the surface, displacing half my face and smoothing out the worst part of me. I trace the scar, a claw slash I didn’t see that’s left me with more than regret for burning my village. I head past the bridge, strolling at first, then remember to make up a story, so I turn scared, running in Ss as if I’m delirious. A confused, lone guard rattles nonsense above me when I pass their gate.

“A w-w-wo—elf—naked—with a chicken…”

I find the first store and grab the ring and pull the door.

Siblings argue over a recent break-in while I start fingering through the shelves, looking for food, but I hear the brother gasp, and order Camilla to get me some clothes.

“First the claw,” he says, “then that clown!”

My ears flit and I slack my jaw.

“Now this!”

“Forget the claw, Lucan!” Camilla snaps from halfway up the stairs.

She ravages the room upstairs, swinging open drawers, slamming them, then rushing back down with robes and slippers.

“And I told you to never bring that freak up again!” Her heel catches the bottom of her dress and she slips down a step and squeals. “Ugh. That was weeks ago!”

“Well, I’m still mad!”

Camilla throws a slipper at him. He misses the catch and it hits him in the forehead.

“Ow…”

I grab my throat, my palm presses against my chest bone trying to heave itself.

“You saw a clown?” I wheeze.

“Oh don’t you worry,” Camilla throws the robe around me. “No harm done here. You’re safe and will be well taken care of. Right, brother?” She shoots a glare.

“Sure, we’ll just rename ourselves the Hospitality for Foreign Strangers.”

I overlook his sarcasm. “Thank you.”

Camilla takes me to a back room with a wooden tub and a stool. A cloth hangs from a hook nailed into the ceiling.

“Stay here while I draw water,” she says, and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know what happened to you, and you don’t have to tell me. No one’s going to hurt you, okay?”

She seems eager to help and I don’t stop her. I smell terrible. Not having clean water to wipe myself, eating only to fill me, not improve me, and sleep in skins used by countless other prisoners. And to be honest with myself, Dunmer radiate an earthy musk if we don’t clean ourselves. I’ll take Redguard pungency over my own; they smell like cumin.

Camilla returns with dual water buckets from outside and pours them into the tub. After a few trips she helps me in and throws twigs of lavender a sachet of chamomile. All I need now is a spoon and some honey. She hands me a cloth and holds a pot of water that stinks of roses.

“Hope the water’s not too cold.” She says, rapping her fingers along the pot. Looks handpainted. “I have some rose-water if you need it. Made it myself to pour down if—”

I ask, “Poor clown?”

I rub the cloth in every pit but I’ll never get the urgent feeling out of my stomach. I’m here for the basics then I gotta haul chicken and self to the next town.

Camilla feigns a laugh. “No. I didn’t say…” She stands taller. “…is this about him? Did he do this to you?”

“No.”

I did this to me.

“Oh,” she says. “A coincidence then.”

“No.” I also say. For once, I tell the truth to a stranger. Seems appropriate with the work she’s putting in me. “He saved me.”

“You’re Igniri!” she cries out. She leaps over the tub and hugs me. My hand’s pinned between our bosoms, holding the wet cloth. Lucan barges in after more squealing hurts my ears.

“What is going—” Lucan stutters in the doorway, a plank jammed between the frames.

It must be a fantasy to catch girls in states like this.

“Get out, Lucan!” Camilla shoves him away, spilling rosewater.

She turns about and her entire front is soaked.

“What about me?” I say.

Camilla tells me about a jester who almost ran over the neighbor’s dog but narrowly missed and stopped right in front of their store, cursing the heavens, the aedra, the daedra, for ever letting that day exist. At this, I stop washing, and marinate from the waist down. I rest my arms on the edge of the tub, intent on remembering every word.

“‘Unfair! Unfair, I say!’” Camilla recites. “He dropped to his knees as if all his will abandoned him. ’Stranger…such sweet gesture to one poor jester.’ I came up to him and asked if he was all right. He cried out your name. ‘Igniri! She’ll come through here. You have to give her my words.’ I asked him what she looked like but all he said was ‘she’s dark as night and bright as day.’ He seemed so…in the clouds. Then he said, ‘No one compares and now torn. Torn and far, so far away.’ Like a tale in one of my romance books.” She sighs.

“What’s the message?” I ask.

“He said he was on an important mission and that it would be impossible to be with him. ’Don’t follow me,’ he said. ‘Tell Igniri this. Tell her I can’t be found. Tell her Cicero must obey, that Cicero cannot stray. This is for Mother.’” Camilla picks at a petal in the water. “When he told me I thought he was some mama’s boy who never left the farm, if you get my meaning. But Lucan says he was crazy and probably running to join the circus.”

She keeps talking about how she’s always wanted to do something outside of town, that maybe she should join up. I would laugh, but my face would break into tears.

“But he looked so sad. I knew there was something about whoever he mentioned.” Camilla notes the coffin and that Cicero called it Mother many times before leaving town. “‘It never ends,’ he said. And he left. He gave me twenty gold as recompense. Told me to buy a treat for the mutt and something nice for me.”

A commotion erupts in the store. Bowls topple to the floor—I hear them spinning on their edge until the momentum slows, and stops with a hwwwp.

Lucan shrieks, “Chickens now!?”

I climb out of the tub and Camilla grabs a longer cloth off her dressing table for me.

“How far is Falkreath from here?”

She helps me dress and offers to escort me to the edge of town but I see now Lucan is her master much less a brother. And Riverwood her cage. I tell Lucan to shut it and he blathers half-spoken syllables before I point at my breasts, and he shuts up completely. I tell Camilla I have no money on me but I’ll pay her back. Teach her archery, to hunt, maybe tell her about other cities much safer than this dingy place.

“Whiterun,” I offer. “Just a five minute sprint from here.”

Camilla’s laugh is genuine this time and her hug dryer too. “I believe you. But Lucan would never let me.”

“There’s protection in Whiterun. Plenty of guards. And every citizen there carries something, maybe even a disease.”

She bids me luck and safe travels, though where I go is nowhere near safe or lucky, but a place known for their dead.

Cicero wants to keep me away but that only drives me to be closer. I couldn’t tell Camilla about Whiterun’s most wanted. He has to be in Falkreath. It’s that sense he gets that I want to believe I have in myself. Playing my opponent, reading his moves, an old hunter’s strategy of knowing your target well before going after them. You study them, memorize them, and when opportunity knocks at the door, you go through the window just in case it’s a trap.

_I can’t be found._

But I did find you, Cicero, even without meaning to. I guess this is how fate works. And I cannot let go after you showed me a Skyrim of hues, where its brilliance birthed the storm that smiled so hard it cried.

_Don’t follow me._

Hello, flame, said the moth.


	7. The Slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri rides her downward spiral.

My past and present collide in the still sea of the graveyard. Lines of the dead, quiet and resting, but not at peace. Sunlight peeks through branches of pine trees. A cone drops and plunks down the trunk and rolls to the bed of flowers planted by probably the caretaker. Pine mingles with the morning air, birds chirp in the canopy. So much activity in the forest save this meadow of tombs. Every one cut the same, buried the same, and none have a single token of affection. I had spent an hour walking up and down the rows, waiting, trying to tell a fresh burial from an old. They’re all old. I should be thankful. Falkreath should be thankful. Except I’m here for one purpose and there’s no evidence to say he was here at all.

An old man joins my side but I keep staring at the nameless gravestone.

“I haven’t seen a man based on your description,” he says.

I glance over and see gold. I jerk away; a jaundice elf, Altmer, wrinkled, with white hair. He calmly accepts my surprise.

“You’re not…” _from around here_, is what I was going to say. “…the guy I talked to.”

“That was my assistant Kust. I’m Runil, a priest. No one’s been scheduled for a burial for months. Arkay, bless us.”

Arkay, bless _you_. I’m the one chasing someone who doesn’t want to be found. I ask to borrow a dagger and decide to stay longer. I brush my hands through the nightshade patches and veer into the forest, westward where wild flowers grow. I pass elven graves separate from the smaller mounds and wonder if the Altmer is the last in his family too. They have a nice view of a hill. I begin clipping the wolfsbane first, then nightshade; I move up the hill, gathering a bouquet until I reach the top, and appreciate the fog rolling in with the warm ground and chilling stillness. The hill overlooks a small pond framed with a plethora of nightshade. Beside it is a grim, stone relief one sculpts for mausoleums. Though I don’t chance the descent with my healed ankle, I nonetheless feel drawn to collect every flower there.

“Bock.”

Sometimes I think she does that to remind me she’s there, though I do my best to ignore her. And then she takes on the challenge of hopping the rocks down to the pond and situates herself there, tending to the soft soil where worms would love to hide.

Good, bird. Stay. Stay forever.

I take the route around the hill and down.

A horse nickers. I don’t look up at first; there are many horses in Skyrim and all of them sound the same to me. But when it nickers again it sounds playful, like its master returned with an apple. I search through the trees back toward town. A portion of a large cart rests on the other side of the hill. I rush down through someone’s camp, heart pounding, lungs sucking cold, foggy air. I meet the back of the cart—the coffin’s gone. I whip around to the front and a Nord man greets me, a pale horse chews on a snack.

“Heading somewhere?” He asks.

Hope plummets below all emotion, leaving me with nothing but the bouquet. Even it begins to wilt.

I place the last flower on the furthest grave and return the dagger to the old man.

“You’ve shown more respect for the dead than anyone I know, traveler. Here” He hands me a small handful of gold. “For caring. The journey into the afterlife is just as important as our birth.”

“I can’t accept this.”

“You look like you could need it.”

I slump my shoulders. “How much is carriage fare?”

That’s all I accept from the priest. His gratitude isn’t giving me what I want, what I need, and what I need I can’t reach. It’s not even Cicero anymore. It’s knowing. Knowing why he would vanish, why he doesn’t want me to find him. I thought we had a great time. We made each other laugh, we talked about ideas. Was the deer too much? Am I scary? I know some people find me intimidating but most of them were already at the end of a sharp arrow.

The carriage takes me back to Loreius Farms where I find exactly what I expect.

I drop off the back and retrace the tracks Cicero’s cart made toward Whiterun. I see Loreius’ wife in the field, tending to the wheat but it’s like her looking in a mirror. I meet the rock I sat on and reenact the memory. I draw my hand up the stone. I kneel where he knelt. I pretend to hold what he held. I see myself looking back at me. Scared but wanting. I slide my hand up my leg.

“Do you want me to go?”

I blink back to the present and there’s only one of me now.

He drops me off at Riften, where browns are gray, and gray is covered in lichen or piss. It’s a lake town, where everyone knows each other’s business, and all of it stinks. I regroup in the Cistern, where a lot of people who didn’t give a shit suddenly ask me where I’ve been. It must be the rosewater. Intoxicating to people living in the sewers. Niruin asks where my bow went, Ravyn wants to thank me for recruiting him over drinks (I tell him to thank Brynjolf), and Cynric nails it on the head.

“You got caught!” He exclaims.

I stop in front of Nocturnal’s statue and observe her glossy finish from the corner of my eye. She’s favored me and granted me everything to keep me out of trouble. A mother who keeps her darlings in the nest if they praise her, respect her, and generally have been good in a thief’s perspective. I’ve been caught in a web of frustration that stretches so far I can’t see the anchor point. Perhaps it was Ulfric, or the Stormcloaks at the tavern. But then I turn, and stare Cynric down. It was all of them, who claim to be happy in riches beyond measure but keep to themselves, until one of us gets a taste of real happiness, and they all want a nibble of the story. Why is it they minded their own business up to now?

“Why so curious?” I say through clenched teeth.

Niruin pretends to be interested in his cooking with the other elf watching him stir the pot. His bluish ear toward me.

For once, I am not the one who doesn’t speak.

Tonilia outfits me with the stash I kept in her care. She throws my bugout bag at me and I’m gone. I take the secret exit out and Delvin calls out.

“Hey.”

He climbs up the stairs just before I pull the lever.

“You know some of us had bets if you were ever coming back.”

More ways of making money, eh, Dolphin?

“I’m not dead.” I adjust my bag strap.

“I see that.” He rests his hands on his hips. “You saved our asses. We just…look, if you ever need anything—”

“You knew.”

The short distance between us draws out and I could have been back in Markarth.

“Yeah. I knew.” He folds his arms. “And you know the rules.”

“I do.” I copy him. “So you really wouldn’t do anything for me because rules. You’re just saying it. Words. Mercer Frey would still be alive if I hadn’t damned the rules.”

I turn to go. Sick of this place.

“That’s it?”

What do you mean that’s it? I gave part of my life to this guild. Now you want me to give you more? More words? More thought? More emotion? More what? Want my soul? Nocturnal has that. I may not even get to see Sovngarde because I didn’t have a choice!

“Got a lot to do. Might be a while.”

“Okay. You’ll tell me if you’re in any trouble, understand?”

I’m not Vex; go bark up another tree.

The Bee and Barb welcome me as poorly as I introduced myself months ago when I first started in the guild. That animosity shaves a few extra gold from my pocket to soften their service as I ask them to keep feeding me refills. The counter holds my cheek as I trace its lines in the wood with my chewed fingernail. Already my hands are numbed down to the touch. Argonian ale hits me harder than that Nord who bludgeoned me. I hold the back of my head, recalling the sensation, but all I feel is a void.

_I cannot be found._

As if no matter what I do or try will never be enough. He’s gone. Despair saws me to pieces and there’s no one to clean up the blood. I push my tankard away and turn to stand, but the way I lean—the counter’s edge in my back, my knee bent, elbows resting—it’s how he was that night. Confident that he’d win. I relish the pose, stepping into his shoes. I take an arrow from my quiver and it becomes the spoon. A knife from the butter tray, his dagger. I close my eyes and I’m there.

Men surround me. Igniri looks for a surprise and I’m full of them. Mother will be disappointed if I don’t get out of this alive. She’ll scold me if my body hits the ground so when one hits my dear elf, I hit them back.

In slow, fluid motions I strike with a psalm of blood and pain, as requested when they insulted me. My feet slide across the wood as delicate as hands across a harp. My wrists twirl the spoon and dagger, one to defend, the other to end. I step aside as each man falls, a dance through the violence. I bend to my sin with my savior on the floor. I whirl around until they pile to the rug and when they think they have her, they have me at their throat. They roar to call more but they die in a weep. Lightning strikes outside but I’m the storm. I sway into my next lunge, each move as smooth as wine, as hypnotic, a trance to send my enemies into death, and offer them to their gods.

I raise my arms as wings, a dancer at the end of their number. Then the troll approaches and I bring the spoon down with almighty wrath.

I am triumphant. With that, I turn to take my lady’s hand. An Argonian stands where she would be.

“We’re closing the bar,” Talen-Jei says, wiping a mug with a cloth. “Gonna have to ask you to leave.”

The inn rests empty except a man in a black robe sitting at a table, applauding me. Euphoria kicks in, as if I awoke from a lingering dream.

“Give—” I blink away the haze. “Okay.” I rap the counter and grip it tight in case I lose myself when I check the floor.

Wooden planks. No orange and blue striped rugs. Plain old Riften. I grab my bag and leave, still unsure if I’m me.

I shake out remnants of Cicero. Like I could be him so easily. I scoff at myself. But never have I felt so good, even though I didn’t kill those men, it was right. I clench my fists that burn with new purpose. The arrow and the butter knife in my gloves. I raise them up and the knife glints from a nearby sconce. Perhaps it’s the ale enhancing my attention to detail, as a painter sees patterns and shapes throughout the world, so do I. Framed perfectly in my arms is the orphanage and its gloomy sign barely legible in the sunset. All my ideas begin to mesh, thoughts of meaning; what to do, who to become now that the strings are cut, summarized into voices calling me to serve; to try.

I will miss you, dear Cicero, and I may never see you again, so I have to move on. But you left me the best parting gift I could have since my mother’s death: a reason to kill.

As the world doesn’t see me with you in it, it will continue to take from me everything that I want. If this is the case, I cannot allow it to happen to anyone else. We will always have the slip, and the night of hysterical laughs, and brutal stabs. Tonight I carry the torch, to serve the people the world hurts, and it starts with Grelod. The first thing I’m going to do on my list lies fifty paces ahead: save all the orphans.


	8. The End of Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri meets her mark and almost misses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got hit with a bad cold, then the holiday bustle happened, so I apologize for the longest wait ever. Also, the words weren't flowing right with me after being so busy, so I had to take my time with this one in hopes of getting it to make sense and sound all right. I didn't want her past to be a basic flashback, so I needed to get her story straight in my head before I started posting. I think I know where I'm going now. Thank you for understanding.

It must be my drunken haze. How I walk up to the orphanage and get a hot uneasiness. A long house alone from the others with barely a yard to play in, more to stand and feel even more closed in. I don’t know if they ever took Aerin here. I didn’t try hard enough to look. My youth strangles from trauma I avoid to remember, but in this case, inebriated worse than before, having little to eat, and I’m at my solitude’s mercy. I raise my hand to the door and it’s over the river and through the woods, back to the village I go.

I had a couple years to mourn Aerin. In that time I watched the warm seasons shorten and the cold seasons stay. On a clear, sharp afternoon, my mother asked me to deliver alchemy supplies to Brelinda. Da called her the town whore which Mother corrected abruptly “alchemist.” She had many clients that would come in and out and sometimes in again.

Both were right.

I lifted my hand to the alchemist’s door and something growled on the other side. Deep and low. Hairs raised on my neck. I shivered. I was suddenly aware of how strong my heart’s gotten from running into the woods to cry. My clothes turned cumbersome and warm. The crisp air did nothing for my clammy skin and I was aware of the throbbing vein in my throat. I wanted to bolt but then an argument blanketed the fear. Two people frustrated. Brelinda’s voice, I assumed, and one of her sick clients. I knocked on the wood and posed like I hadn’t heard anything before. But no one answered, and I thought I waited enough, so I pushed the door open, called her name, and walked in just as something tall slipped into the back room.

Brelinda rushed up to me in her faded dress and apron.

“What is it, girl?” she snapped.

I swallowed but my throat ran dry. I coughed. I handed her the basket of ingredients and recognized some of them. Imp stool and canis root that grew behind my house. Brelinda took it.

“Is it for his cold?” I asked.

She almost glanced back except she jerked her head back to me and squinted.

“Maybe cough syrup,” I added.

Brelinda fumbled for change, a tip to shut me up, probably. My mother never accepted money but favors. Anything to help out the community.

She found a gold coin and thrusted it into me and drove me back out the door, muttering about being busy.

“Or hair removal?”

She slammed the door on me.

Guy had back hair like a troll.

Only later that night I learned it wasn’t a man at all.

Another chore sent me to the house on the far end of the road. I held a bucket of milk as I almost knocked. Before my knuckles rapped the sound, a tall boy swung open the door. It didn’t matter what he looked like because he was the only boy in town and that meant all the girls wanted him. If I had known I did notice his sunken eyes before he took the bucket from me.

“Thank you,” he said.

And that was it. Or I thought it was.

“You’re going to marry him!” My mother said on another day. “I’ll have none of the other laze-abouts getting such a growing man.”

I didn’t object. I was one of “all the girls.”

After Ma had talked to his father about me I was forcefully nudged one night to introduce myself to this boy Seben and his father Tulnar. I had always played in the woods or hid in the attic, so I never was out in the village long enough to know people. I knew of them. Not as well as Brelinda might.

It was another quiet night and I just had supper. I had snuck into Ma’s wine to borrow a bottle. Yes, borrow. At that age, wine was gross. But it made me look cool walking up to the older boy’s house. The twinkling sheet of stars calmed me but my fingers tensed around the bottleneck, and I couldn’t relax the twinge in my back.

The house at the end of the road felt further than before as the growing silence wafted over the village. Torches stopped crackling yet the fire remained. The stream, tranquil plucking against stones, had dried out but still flowed. My shoes made the loudest scuffle as I walked, so I stopped to balance the eerie peace. And then Skyrim’s chilly fingers ran up my spine and through my hair. I was one hundred paces when I heard the howl. Fifty paces when I heard the roar, the crash, and gnashing of teeth. Zero paces on the porch of Seben’s house. I did notice no one came out of their houses. I did not notice I had lost the wine somewhere behind me when I pounded on their home. I heave for breath. I had never sprinted so fast. I was sure I flew. The cold air burned my throat as I had wondered why I would ever run _toward_ the danger.

It could have been anything beyond the door. And it was one of the reasons I had felt safer always breaking in than making myself known. I would know the truth. There was no mask to throw on before answering the door. No script to say. No lies to create. Like the breeze slipping under the cracks and seeing what really is than what they make you perceive. If I’m invisible, they’re not. Monsters are monsters and people are people. But sometimes, in most of the cases I’ve experienced, with the scar on my face as a grand reminder, people can be the worst kind of monsters.

My knuckles drum the door to the orphanage. Hardly a tune since I can’t even keep steady. I sway to the hum I made up and find humor in swinging these numbed tendrils of a water creature. It’s taking a long time, even longer in my state, for someone to answer. I expect the old woman but I’ll take anyone to hear me. I knock again. Maybe they’re already in bed but I’ve lost all concept of time and wouldn’t understand sleep. I dare not close my eyes and face the swirling void to try. They might see me through the fence. Or they do see me, somewhere, and know I’m not here to sell the story of Anu. For all they could know, I’m the wolf who huffs and puffs and spews all over their doorstep.

Tonight, I’m the hunter. It’s the wolf in the old lady’s clothes.

I try the door latch, it opens easily, and I step in. An empty waiting area welcomes me. I swagger in further. The room blurs if I look about too fast. Aretino’s words repeat in my head, keeping my intent clear, but then, I hear her, and my intent growls ravenously.

“Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating. Do I make myself clear?”

A group of kids say in unison, “Yes, Grelod.”

My gloves stretch across my knuckles when I ball my hands into fists.

“And one more thing: there will be no more talk about adoptions. None of you riff raff is going to be adopted ever.”

I let myself wander into a dining room, and Grelod and the pups stand in a circle between their rows of beds. A barracks without the armor. I clench my teeth. No room to lie with a belly full of mead. I snarl, twisting hatred the longer she talks. If I’m an ash face, she’s the ash tray. The bottom of a fire pit, burnt and worn.

“Nobody needs you,” she says. “Nobody wants you. That my darlings is why you’re here until you’re grown up and get thrown out into the wide, horrible world. Now, what do you say?”

“We love you, Grelod. Thank you for your kindness.”

“That’s better. Now scurry off, guttersnipes.”

The best part about me is when I drink, I focus on one thing, and only that thing.

Guess the worst part.

The orphans tend to their beds. Imperials and Nords together, with no toys, no fresh clothes, no clean sheets. Grelod turns away and proceeds to haunt a back room. As I follow her, eyes follow me. Pleading, confused, wearied. There’s nothing to life except this hell. The doors unlocked but they’re afraid to leave. Everything they’re probably afraid of is true. But everything they’ve never known is also true. Everything Grelod never told them.

I enter her bedroom and office, it seems, and the first thing I see is the only book in the entire orphanage. The second thing I see is my vision tunneling into a scarlet rage.

“What do you want?” Grelod snaps. “You have no business being in here.”

She sits with her back to me, jotting down I-don’t-care-what, sipping something rancid in a wooden cup. Everything Aretino said seems accurate. Now there’d be no way for me to deny him his request.

“What are you staring at? You worthless piece of gutter trash.”

Now I’d do it for free.

“I simply must start locking the doors again.”

That would make this more fun. I must’ve stared for longer than I should have because she stands and challenges me with all her wrinkles and large nose pores.

“You think you can intimidate me?” Her rotten breath puffs out and I almost gag. “Ha! Get out of my way. I have things to do, ash face.”

I grab for my bow and it takes me embarrassingly too many times to get it from my sheath, even longer trying to reattach the string. Try tying your shoes when you can’t feel your hands.

“Cute toy,” she patronizes.

Then she sniffs me. I topple back into her bed frame and catch myself on the post. She smells worse than me, having decades to build up that natural old lady odor, topped with her lack of weekly baths.

“Are you drunk?” she sneers. “You come into my establishment and think you can kill me wasted blind? You’re dumber than you look!”

Than I look?

Than _I_ look?

I crouch and Nocturnal’s plume of illusion encompasses me.

“Where’d you go?” I knew she’d say.

My string is taut. I wanted to stab her with my bow but seeing her look around for me brings back some of my dignity. I pat the far end of the bed and she snatches her book, probably to club me with it, but I’m in the corner by the side table, lining up my shot. I aim for her heart but my hands can’t keep still. My sight wavers with the end of the arrow. I kneel, hoping it steadies me, but I lose my balance, and catch myself, loosing the arrow.

“Ha! There—_gurgh_!” It shoots up Grelod’s neck in mid-word.

So precisely through her brain her eyes instantly roll back and she drops dead with a gaping expression. I’m not going to get my arrow.

I lift my knees off the hard wooden planks, eaten by weather and bugs. A headless teddy bear lies by my foot and I pick it up to inspect it closer. I wasn’t just drunk and off-balance. I must’ve stepped on this.

“What happened?” A kid strolls into the bedroom.

My heart pounds. My shoulders seize. More kids peer into the room, a chorus of gasps behind him.

“Someone killed Grelod!”

I squeeze the bear. I have to stand not just for the kids but the sharp pain in my knee followed by the ache of my old injury. Suddenly they all look at me, shocked, as if a haunting spirit finally revealed itself. I’m about to lie, say it’s an accident, because it was. I wanted to stab her, impale her, beat her and choke her with the pages of her own book. Take every piece of furniture, cut it down, and nail them to her. But this perfect, precise, quick death was not me. Not at all.

“You killed Grelod!”

He lets out a chuckle. He dismisses the horror planted on the dead woman’s face, blood oozing from the entry point, slowly dripping down her neck, staining her dress. A sparkle catches in his eye. Then he laughs even harder. And it’s not just him.

“Hurray!” Another child shouts. “Grelod the Kind is dead at last!”

The rest chime in.

“Aventus did it!”

Cheering and laughing.

“We love you, Dark Brotherhood!”

So much laughing. I take in the glee and see Cicero’s smile perfectly copied on their faces. I hear his thanks, the sincerity, the restored hope. It’s the end of a false kindness and the rise of true charity. A meaning in what I do by providing a service: liberation. I thought cutting my own strings would feel good, but this is much more freeing. Their payment? Laughter. After their young years stripped of childhood they can be children again. I can cross this off my do list and bask in the first payment with great satisfaction.

The children jump on their beds, bed to bed, howling, and cawing, animals at Grelod’s wake. One girl stands in the doorway, still laughing. Laughing and holding her apron like a blanket, snuggling it to her cheek.

I chuckle. The low sound drums behind my chest bone. I sit on the edge of the bed, bear in hand, bow in the other. The arches of jumping children blur into streamers at a party. The crying-laughing girl, a fountain statue. And children playing patty-cake in the center room, the gamefloor. Another chuckle escapes. It yearns to be out and, gradually, my quiet happiness transforms into hysterical glee. At some point I realize I could be heard by the dozen guards patrolling Riften outside. I might be arrested again until another headsman tries to take me, yet I would be even more content dying because it’s not just a funny prank I pulled. I did it for the children and all of Riften would sympathize, maybe even contest my sentence. If I had the room to adopt every single one here I would, but they’d only be orphans again with how my life goes. I’ve tried running from monsters before. It’s easier, in long terms, to end them even if you know them.

I stop wondering how they’re going to be taken care of when a woman walks in and screams all but murder.

“What are you doing up there!? Get down! Is that cheese in your nose? Who said you could—hey! Stop that!”

She storms through the room and fills the light in the doorway, staring at me.

“Who—!?” But she sees Grelod taken off her high horse, upside-down, and vacant.

There’s the murder.

She runs out but disappears left, the kitchen and pantry. There could be sharp objects in there so I let myself out, celebratory bells send me off, bells of children’s thanks, and praises. I shut the door behind me; I still hear the cheering, muffled by walls of wood. That young woman could be a problem, but if that's the only adult left to take care of the orphans, I have to leave that loose end alive. Or maybe pay her off later when she's not pissing down her legs. 

The air’s cold and fresh, with a sky growing blue on the horizon, its dimming stars winking at me. A guard walks by me with a torch in hand. He glances at me under his golden sheet of light, and I freeze. He stops. The silence between our stares takes me back to Seben and Tulnar’s house. Tulnar had answered the door and my heart had been pounding like it does now. There was a pause before the lock unlatched. I had heard him hold his breath before the pull.

“Yes? He had said.

“Are you hurt?” I said. “I heard a commotion.”

“No. No commotion. All fine here.”

“Really? I just saw something jump through the window.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“Okay, then. Is your son around? I was told—”

“Now’s not the best time. Seben’s…not feeling well.”

“I know. I saw him at the wh—Brelinda’s.”

“Why were you at Brelinda’s?”

“I gave her the stuff for the medicine. Did it help?”

“He’s not taking to it immediately. Maybe come back another day, or week.”

“Where is your son, sir?”

“I think you should leave.”

“That’s rude. Didn’t my mother offer a dowry?”

“She’s very generous but I’ll tell her what I told you, now’s not the time. He needs rest. Excuse me.”

He was about to shut the door on me.

I said, “It’s okay, you know.”

But he left a crack; he heard the honest understanding, that I knew something was wrong, and I wasn’t hiding.

“All of us are a little different,” I added.

He slowly widened the crack and leaned through it, brow wrinkled in serious thought. He wanted my help. I saw it. He was going to ask me something. Then he looked beyond me and the wrinkles smoothed. His expression as blank as the royal portraits in castles.

“You and your family,” he paused, “stay the fuck away from me and my boy.”

I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know what changed. But when I turned to go back home, my father stood in the street as if he knew it wouldn’t end well for me.

“Everything okay?” he said.

I keep reading the chain links of the guard’s armor as if they’re words on paper. He coughs loudly at me and I look him in the eye.

“Hm?” I say.

“I said ‘is everything okay?’”

He surveys me and the orphanage behind me, not enough for a full inspection, but a quick suspicious curiosity.

“Oh yeah,” I nod. “Dorky, honey.”

“What?”

“Hunky…door…” I twist my hands, pointing to invisible syllables, as if that’d make the words come out. “I’m just gonna go.”

“Tried adopting too, eh?”

“I think I did something better.” I cringe after it slips out.

“A donation then. Those kids need it the way Grelod keeps them there, and us out.” He sighs. “I wanted to adopt before first snowfall, but I was denied.”

“Maybe try again? I-In a week or four.”

“I might just do that.”

He wishes me good night, that I should rest, and all other social pleasantries that mean nothing when he doesn’t know my name. I wish all that could have killed my stupor had worked—the way Grelod fell after she insulted me, the rush of the guard catching me, then walking away, but when I close my eyes, tired of it all, the blackness churns, and dizzies me out of the want of sleep. I go to Windhelm, not because I have a deathwish, but I'm hoping the cart ride into the cold will kill the nausea. It works for a while until I grow incredibly thirsty, and hungry. I lick my chapped lips but it only makes them sore. The cold seasons could soothe my drinking but never my skin. A double-edged blade, freeze to kill the sick, dry me out, and ache.

I tip the carriage man extra and he stuffs the coin in his bundle of furs wrapped about him. I briefly notice him pulling his knapsack off the cart, as if he intended to stay the night in town. Helpful to know in case I want a pleasant way somewhere else, or to know that I shouldn’t do anything that’ll involve running away after. I turn up the long path into the city, holding my ribs tight from the crosswinds, bearing zero resemblance to the girl who backstabbed the Stormcloak's fearless leader. 

The arrow shoots through her head and Grelod’s eyes stare blankly at the ceiling above her. Little blood escapes. The shaft holds most of it from spurting everywhere. I should be more upset. An intentional murder, not from a burst of anger, or a need to defend myself, but a want. Fully manifested desire to see her dead and what rattled me the most was how the kids would react. Not getting caught, but spoiling another’s innocence, their joy of being a kid. It seems Grelod’s already ruined it. No. Skyrim. If the petty skirmishes hadn’t been going on, these kids would still have families. War creates orphans. Bandits. Beasts, but scarcely. Even if one were to never pick a side, neutral parties get thrown in the middle where the arrows fly. It’s why Mother stayed out of it, not even to set up a medical tent. She kept the village out of it. But let them in to so much worse.

I had to burn them.

Like I had to kill Grelod.

Aventus Aretino waits for my answer after I announce myself entering his house. It’s hot upstairs and bright from his roaring fire. At first he didn’t know it was me in my Nightingale outfit. When I pulled off the hood he almost squealed with eager joy.

“Well…!?” he starts. “Grelod the Kind…is she…? You know…”

The sudden heat warms and swells the sick. I thought after a couple hours it would all go away but I’m in worse shape than in Riften. I have to get out of this house.

I don’t nod.

“Yes,” I say.

I go to leave and the kid follows me, leaping for all orphan-kind, and spinning for himself.

“I knew you could do it!” he praises. “I just knew it! I knew the Dark Brotherhood would save me!”

I’m almost outside when he stops me and hands me a cheap plate.

“Here. Just like I promised. It should fetch you a nice price. And thank you. Thank you again!”

His happiness pays enough. I slip the plate into my bag and head for the corner club to crash. I ask for water and a room but the barman tells me they don’t really let anyone sleep here.

“I just need something to sleep on where stormcloaks won’t go.”

The Dunmer thinks on it then sighs. “Say no more but there’s not much privacy.”

It’s nice to know someone’s looking out for my comfort, but he’s never been inside a mammoth carcass to avoid the blizzard of 195. Or was it 196? Time gets away from me the older I become and the faster humans age.

I lie on a single bed of hay and cow hide, with my head propped against the wall, a basin of water on the side table, and a cup at my lips. The ceiling’s wood grain turns from patterns to pictures as I nurse myself with small sips. I see men’s faces, children’s profiles, and somewhere up there is a dog foaming at the mouth, still dying from my failures. But everything I’ve done wrong falls distant, faint and mute to the laughter. Freedom smiles on me though I’m lame to celebrate. My mouth runs across the cup’s edge, my attention lingers over to the darkened corners of the room, and the ambient sounds of an active bar below me fade as I dwell in my one regret. A melancholic ping sinks down and festers into something that aches. I want to melt into my bed, drip into the boards until the hurt takes itself out. But it won’t, will it? If I have no one to share these happy moments with, what’s the point in having them? When I realize I miss him that much, the ache deepens, and I groan.

His name, a lullaby I repeat in my head until the swirls die off enough for me to droop into my pillow, and stroll into a dream, not knowing I had already closed my eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

Cicero…


	9. Mu Mindok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri becomes the hunted. But will she reject an interesting offer from the hunter?

This is the part where I explain the dream I had just before waking up; if I could have remembered I would have told you, but the slow, stirring bliss of leaving such a peace was violated by unsettling, tiny eyes. Factually, I don’t remember much of anything, not even how I’m waking up in a strange bed because I remember I was at the Bee & Barb and the BB has private rooms.

I peer out through my groggy slits—

A Breton stands over me. “Got something for you.”

—I jump and clutch onto my chest. Remember how I usually don’t speak except when it’s important?

“Mara, mother of fuck!” I bark.

Yelling counts.

Blood pushes against my skull, as if all of it wants to escape through my ears. I moan and press my palms against my temples. Each limb feels its own set of fatigue, and I’m too tired to swing punches at whoever this asshole is. Thankfully, my memory’s recovering, although slowly, and I’m familiar with hiding in this hole after delivering something to someone. What was it? Mail? No, I think that’s this guy’s job.

“Sorry, did I startle you?” he says.

When my breath can slow over my racing pulse I snap at him. “What is it?”

“Got something for you. Your hands only. “

Ah so he _is_ the courier. How did he find me? How is that possible? Is it a spell? Can I learn it so I can find out where I am? At least I can see through the cracks in the floor. I’m above a bar. Corner Club in Gray Quarter? Oh I would’ve looked here first if I was a courier. 

He sifts through a rainbow of letters and pulls out the oldest, most wrinkled one folded into fourths. “Yup. Got this note.” I pinch the corner and accept it. “You walk with mysterious crowds.”

Mysterious? I give him a squinty eye. I mean to look disapproving but really there’s a light in my face I don’t like.

“Guy paid a pretty sum for me to get that to you.”

I rummage through my bag and find a couple coins to tip him. “Stop talking.”

“Okie do—”

I squint harder and he takes the hint with him downstairs and leaves through the front. I unfold the letter after I shake off the disturbance, expecting a short, but drawn out rambling of accusations from Delvin, or Whiterun’s jarl, maybe even the Greybeards to save Skyrim from a giant earthquake. They could help me explain yesterday. Instead, and with confused disappointment, it’s something that doesn’t help at all.

A black handprint and two words.

My thick brow furrows. My thoughts scurry about as I read the words again, but they still make nonsense. The letter only distracts me for so long before I have to nurse my pounding head again. I reach for my water and knock over my bow. I had it leaned against the side table. It falls, hits the wood floor, and I see Grelod’s body in its place.

My face drains the several colors of gray. I scuffle with the furs to get them off me, and I shove myself back, knocking the cup, messing the bed, and my heart jumps into my chest when I fall off the other side. Pain shoots up my back instantly but fades as quick. My hands tremble. I still hold onto the letter. It’s crumpled more now but the ink clearer than ever.

_We know._

In seconds, I’m already halfway across the Gray Quarter, swearing my life to never sleep again. I should’ve killed that other woman. I should’ve grabbed all the orphans and raised them to be thieves. No. Keep them in the orphanage, act as if the place was bestowed to me after the unexpected demise of the crone, and I’d play matron. Sell the orphanage to Black-Briar?

I’m going to hell. Anu hates me and I’m going to be a daedra’s puppy. Which daedra? I’ve probably pissed them all off by now, or made them piss themselves laughing. Sheo might not hate me so much.

“Ivarstead,” I tell the carriage man when I see him at the stables.

“I don’t go to Ivarstead,” he says right when I jump onto the back.

I jump back off. “Then give me your horse.”

He points me to the stablehand. “They give out horses.”

“Well, all right then!” I snap.

I stomp and march toward the chestnut, throw money at the stablehand, and ride the mare southwest, directly to the last place anyone would look for me: my destiny.

High Hrothgar lives up to its name when I finally reach the top, cloaked in furs the locals insisted I wear for the trip. The town had problems I knew they wanted fixing, but I needed hiding, and the highest peak where only few survive was perfect. I’m glad I went with buying my own furs because I don’t think I could have skinned that troll well enough for warmth, or fast enough. My nose could be mistaken for a beet lying in ash. I’m beyond intolerant for the cold. I’m only living because I had to hike an entire day and moving kept me unfrozen. I want to fall on the doorsteps but they won’t hear me with the wind howling and their thick walls keeping everything in. The final steps to the bronze doors are the worst. When I reach the top, past their shrine, and supplies, I turn to spit on the stone.

Nothing but sheets of clouds cover Skyrim’s land, all but the tallest mountains break through the white. The sun just above the cloud line, a slow head falling to rest on a long pillow eventually. It’s almost worth the climb. Not dying is better.

I push the door to High Hrothgar with every last bit of energy, and tumble in when I reach my limit. A flurry of snow cuts through the warmth from several braziers inside, and the last thing I see before I collapse is a robed old man crossing the hall to get me.

Turns out the Dragonborn legend is a bigger deal than I originally heard. Using dragon words causes damage that I can use. I don’t want to be just the guildmistress with that mysterious letter conjuring a constant storm in my head. Whoever sent it needs to be afraid of me, if they’re still tracking me. I get that chance learning new words and strengthening my soul in the safety of a mountain top. “Ro” and “Wuld” are the first things I learn. Arngeir never asks if I need rest, and if he did, I’d tell him to continue the training. I don’t have to when the next part of my training takes me to Ustengrav, where I overcome obstacles, and learn the final word to my first shout: “Dah.” I also learn that I cannot escape the terror of the unknown.

Another letter rests in the hand of a claw statue and I almost don’t want to reach for it. I snatch it and back up, a veteran to triggering traps. Nothing happens which makes unrolling the paper to read it more scary.

“‘I need to speak to you,” I say aloud. “‘Urgently. Rent the attic room at the Sleeping…Giant…Inn…’”

Signed by “A Friend.” I rip the letter in half and find my way out of the ancient tomb.

Yes, I have trust issues. Yes, I don’t like people telling me what to do. What’s more wrong? I have to keep my head on a potter’s wheel to keep my head! If I don’t think everything’s a trap, I won’t live long.

It’s been almost two days since the letter and I only walk in the dark if I can help it. Nocturnal is my goddess but never when it’s only convenient. It’s just convenient now. She’s the one I’ve stuck around with and never made fun of. Except I bet she has to take baths often when those ravens crap on her. Could explain the scarce robes. But other than that never ever _ever_ made fun of her. Everyone else is fair game.

High Hrothgar is almost too lonely. Too high up. But I like the quiet. I had told them the news but until I give them the horn, I don’t pass. I lie and say I’ll get it later, that I need rest. I keep to myself, busying my hands around the monastery, everything but resting. One of the old men notices my three potfuls of snowberries as he walks outside to the back courtyard. He walks back inside and I think he’s avoiding me, or the gust of wind had caught under his robes, until Arngeir returns with him.

“We’re concerned you may have a problem you need facing,” Arngeir says.

No problem, but there might be an _hand_-ful of assassins after me, or worse, the orphan protection conglomerate. I hand him the other mysterious letter and he recognizes the black hand as the Dark Brotherhood, or so he mutters. My suspicions are right but I’m only a thief. I like cheese and the whole prank with Ulfric really, hilariously, went too far. I explain who I am, unable to stop myself because it’s been quiet for far too long, and only the freezing wind has kept me from thinking I’ve gone deaf. Then after I tell them who I am, besides the little sliver of what they want to know of me, as Dragonborn, I tell them about everything from Ulfric to now.

Trust issues! Where’d those go? Probably right off the cliff with the dish water.

“It’s not our place to advise you on such…predicaments. You are welcome to stay in the monastery, however, perhaps it is better to be with a friend. Someone you trust, someone you could stay with, or your guild?”

I was surrounded by old men who have to whisper my name if they choose to answer. They can kill a man uttering a single word. I could have been in the safest place in Tamriel, but why stop there when I had the uneasy suspicion they didn’t want me to use my voice to defend myself? It’s good I left for Riften. I know the city, I know the hiding spots. I know the people. Anyone I don’t know I can disappear. But I can’t keep going like this. If I stand too still, things in the distance start to unfocus, and who’s in front of me splits into a copy of themselves.

Brynjolf folds his arms and stares at me. “Igniri?”

“Huh?”

I’m in the Cistern. I’ve lost another day because I refuse to hire a carriage so close to the major cities. Vaermina must be weighing power over me because I’m slogging. Another night of this and I’ll begin hallucinating. The longest I’ve gone without sleep was a week, but that was…I was younger then. I’ll need to brew a potion to sustain me.

Brynjolf and I have parked by the food. I chew my fingernail while looking over his shoulder. My desk is scattered with papers. Are they mine?

“I’m not the best person to talk to about this, lass.” Brynjolf changes posture. “I don’t have ties to the Dark Brotherhood.” He waits for effect. “But you know who did.”

Does he have to say it so enthusiastically?

I blink and my eyes don’t want to open. When they do, I take a step, and I’m already in the Ragged Flagon. I try to yawn but seeing the place brings back all the feelings of boredom.

Delvin sits across from me at his table and would grin from ear-to-ear if his narrow mouth could reach.

I hate me.

“Did you hear there was a murder?” Delvin mentions.

He reads my posture and I let him know it was me by shifting in my seat and crossing my arms.

“Nasty old hag finally got what should have been a long, slower death. But dead’s dead, am I right?”

“I try to do good in the world,” I say, “but the world bites.”

He goes over the letter. I dance my knee to keep some part of me active, some part awake.

“They’re not gonna kill ya,” He starts, “if no one’s hired them to; it’s safe to say they’re just trying to show their power, and scare ya a bit. But you’re not one to be scared, so why does this rattle your cage all of a sudden?”

I have something to live for, but it’s none of his business.

He continues, “You don’t like it when things are out of your control.”

“What?”

“I don’t either.”

“No, I like no control. But I don’t like—I don’t—” I don’t even know. I thought I wanted to lose control. I wanted this, right? It’s fun! It’s fun because I don’t know what’s going to happen! If I just keep yelling inside my head maybe I’ll convince myself it is!

Delvin says, “You shouldn’t let them get to you. You’re the Dragonborn now, and still the Guildmistress. Your word is law. It’s the D-B that should be scared of you. And maybe they are. Hence…” He jabs his finger into the unfolded letter on the table.

“I thought I was helping kids. I wanted my effort to…” I lose the words and shake my head. I need to clean my boots.

“Nothing without struggle is worth all the gold in Skyrim.” He folds up the letter. “If there’s a fight at the other end of this note, I’ll give ‘em hell. I promise you.”

I’m sure what he said is important but the words stroll right over me. I try to thank him for the help. He must hear something because I manage to get a few syllables out before my head lies down on the loaf of bread without my permission, and I’m lulled to sleep by the yeasty fragrance. A chair scoots across wood. Footsteps. Warm hands pull me close to leather and padding. Footsteps heading somewhere. A drop of water hits me. A door squeaks. I’m lowered down and sink between something cool that warms up just as quick.

Bedding. No. No I can’t.

“Mmm-no…mmm…”

Lips so tired I can’t open my mouth. A hand cradles my head onto a pillow. I try to peel my eyes but all I get is a blur of Delvin walking out of the room, then I strain to keep them open, until there’s no strength left, and I succumb.

I wish I could skip to the end to tell you everything’s going to be okay. But I’m not at the end. I’m still stuck on the ledge in Solitude, finding my courage to dive or die for who I love. A single memory can span a lifetime and as Dragonborn I can stop time to give you that one clue I wish I had before she fucked it up for all of us. It’s not a trail of clues but action and reaction of clashing desires, what I want versus everyone else. My drive to be entertained by chaos takes me places low and high, and I guess the guild never thought anyone would be able to break in, and steal me right under their sewage-numbed senses. When my snore startles me, I’m aware of brisk air, and I reach for a blanket to find none. I open an eye and my pulse quickens. I’m atop a bed with an old hide and moldy hay, surrounded by junk someone tossed in this worn shack, disheveled by years of abandonment, and smells just as old. Musty, cold, and—is that fear and copper? My nose is half what my ears can do. The bloodstains don’t bother me, old or new, stuck on the ceiling, or dripping down the dresser. It’s the three blind souls on their knees that reflect poorly on me.

A cat, a hag, and a merc get dragged into a shack because of a Dunmer. I can’t think of a punchline but this stuff can write its elf.

“Sleep well?” says none of the three.

My hand grips for my bow and I have it. How do I still have it? I bring it around, pull an arrow from the quiver, set, and aim at the sound. My eye rests along the shaft, blurry compared to the target sharp before me. A woman in black and red dangles her foot from a sturdy bookcase. She sits on top in a way meant to be dominating yet alluring. She thinks she’s sexy but I only see a slender waist, nice thighs, and bright, green eyes socketed in that pale Nord skin. It would be enough for someone else, not me. I grow a smile for other reasons and lower my bow.

This must be the assassin. An assassin who chooses the worst place in the room to hold. She’s vulnerable, cornered, pinned on the top shelf. If she jumps for me, I have more time to react while she falls to her death, a girl kabob, or pin cushion if I wish to show off. And that leg hanging down; I could cut it off before she’d scream. So many ways for her to die. She’s my captor. She deserves to die. I’ll release the others and dangle her from the roof as an example to others: don’t fuck with the Dragonborn. Then I can proceed to beat the shit out of Delvin. He let this happen. I don’t know how but I know whatever ties he had with the Brotherhood, they’re still there. I should have stayed in the monastery. Why? Why did I leave!?

Is it the little chance I felt to see how this plays out? To see if I can square a deal and get it over with or perhaps I had known this might be another opportunity. I do like surprises. And she let me keep my bow. She let me keep all my things now that I feel around for them. I don’t know why I got so worked up. She’s a fool.

Or she’s hoping to find an ally.

Or a puppet.

That’s the only thing that makes me uneasy. The kidnap, the hostages, the woman—my heart rate hasn’t risen from bedrest until the thought of the strings again.

“Oh goodie,” I say.

She replies, “You’re not new to waking up in strange places, I take it.”

Her voice is sultry, hungry for what turns her on. The next thing to sex that’s as addicting is violence. This could go either way.

“You’re here because of something you’ve done,” she says. “Poor Grelod. Half of Skyrim knows the old woman got butchered in her own orphanage. Oh, but I’m not criticizing. It was a good kill but there is a slight problem. Aretino was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. Me and my associates. Grelod was by all rights a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill that you stole. A kill you must repay.”

I must be halfway back to sleep by now because I look over at the hostages and begin to hum a diddy that creeps into my ears, and makes a nest for winter.

The woman continues despite the humming, picking at the splinters in the roof. “You see I have collected a few guests but only one of them has the contract out on their life.” She scoffs playfully. “But which one? I want you to find out. Make your choice. Make your kill. I just want to observe and admire, then we’re square.”

Three blind souls, three blind souls.

No they cannot run. No they cannot hide.

Their spirits haunted the Dunmer’s life,

who cut through their necks with a daedric knife.

Did you ever see the mer laugh in spite

of these blind souls?

I just made that up.

“Are you listening?” she snaps.

My grin is less mischievous because I have to hide the truth: I was. Brynjolf had told me that it’s all about sizing up my mark. In this case, my opponent. I wanted to see if my casual response to all her work would get under her skin, make her make a mistake, and it has, it does. She has control issues too. Somewhere a little girl wasn’t listened to and grew up into a masked outfit that makes other people do what she says. Not the route I went, but we are alike, and so much opposite. All in less than a minute of her talking she’s already told me more about herself than I have told her about me. Eventually, it’s my turn. I’ll have to give her something about myself and I don’t think I’m ready for that part in our relationship. Not how I wanted to wake up. And no, I did not sleep well. From sewer to whatever this is. Nasty.

I circle the captives. I can let her believe I pre-meditate my kills. I try not to laugh, because nothing I do is planned, really. I can keep that a secret. So I ask them individually why they should die. They’re astoundingly social for being in a horrific state and they’re all assholes.

I yawn after Vasha’s story about the last rape he committed. It’s easily the most enraging thing I’ve heard, but I feel like I only got a few minutes rest when it could have taken the assassin hours to get me here. I’m in the middle of nowhere with someone who’s letting me roam free, but not too free (because I see the locked door), and there’s a subpar bed that isn’t too bad if I get the right fittings.

She never said I had to decide today.

I feel up Vasha’s long coat, and cut off one of the flaps about his legs. He yells at me but the blade never touches his fur; scaredy cat. I move to the woman who wears a long dress and I make it shorter all while she’s cussing, thinking I’m going to ravage her wrinkly bits or something. Gross.

The coat folds up nicely and I set it on the bed. I lie down and cover myself in the dress, wrapped snugly up to my neck.

“What are you doing?” the masked woman says.

“Gonna sleep on it.”

“‘Sleep on it.’ What?”

“There’s no time limit, right?”

“Sithis, help me. I will kill you if you fall asleep on me.”

No she won’t, I think, and I close my eyes.

_Shhnk._

I stare at myself in the shiny flat blade, inches from my eyes, stuck in the makeshift pillow.

Not much of a fool as she displayed.

I decide to offer the captives freedom so I kill them all. Vasha, who threatened to carve his name in my corpse, Alea Quintus, who has no excuse to be a bitch when I know an Imperial without kids, takes care of orphans, had to deal with Grelod, and she’s a daisy. Then there’s Fultheim the Fearless, who reminds me of a clan of men in skirts I met, who requested Nord hospitality after a long journey. They killed the entire village in their sleep.

At least I woke people up with my screaming first.

The woman applauds me as I clean off my blade. I gave her what she wants: knowledge. In turn, I learned something more as well. It doesn’t take a big reason for me to end a life, just a good one.

“Well, well,” she says. “Why take chances?”

I sheathe my dagger and wait for her to come down and release me. She drifts off the shelf and lands as noiseless as parchment falling to the ground. She gives me the key and a waft of her scent, familiar, and sweet. I lick my teeth. Almost too sweet.

“You followed my orders, and for that, I offer you an extended invitation to join my family, the Dark Brotherhood.”

“I’m good,” I say.

“Consider it,” she offers. “You were looking to right the wrongs of people who deserve death. Those orphans are free because of what my organization represents: new beginnings from new ends.”

I unlock the door. The lock shifts with a mechanical noise and I step outside to a foggy marsh of hazy gray in the night. Noises of wilderness fill my ears. An old boat is stuck on land but a bald, creepy tree keeps it company, accented with bushes of grass. Massar watches over through thinned cloud cover. Deathbell tries to mask the usual stench of the salty air, but its weak fragrance is why they’re so boldly purple.

Morthal shouldn’t be far but I know I’m even closer to Ustengrav, and that unsettles me more. She could be the one with the horn and she’s toying with me like I did. How long has she been stalking her prey? Days. The entire time? She’d know that I’m Dragonborn; she definitely knows I’m head of the guild, so she knows she’s over her head. So she makes me paranoid. Sends me the letter, knowing I’ll starve of sleep, and go to anyone I trust. She knows me, like she’s read me for a long time, and has waited for this.

“Just in case you change your mind,” her voice creeps behind me, “we’re in the southwest reaches of Skyrim, in the pine forest. You’ll find the entrance to our sanctuary just beneath the road, hidden from view. When questioned by the black door, answer ‘Silence, my brother,’ and you’re in.”

I’d tell her I’m not interested, but she’d know the lie because I’ve already paused. I haven’t run off because curiosity sticks me in place. The only thing major about the southwest is Falkreath, where I failed a search, and left a chicken in a pond by that stone relief. Which was black. Blood drains from my face. 

“I’ll see you at home,” she says, tracing her hand across my back.

I spin about to grab her and snatch only the perfume she left behind.


	10. Chicken Balaan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri joins the Dark Brotherhood but finds something else she wasn't seeking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was tough because it's an interval scene. Things that happen between the exciting bits. I had taken a break from writing to heal myself and also to paint new work for this book. I'm having fun and I know the next few chapters will be truly memorable. After all, you're here for Cicero, right? Oh yesss...

That damnable chicken. It knew all along and didn’t tell me. Cicero could be at this “home” protected by the ignorance I displayed to the gods at the graveyard. My head runs hot and I smack it hard. After the thousandth time the memory crosses again, I snarl, and snatch the bottles off the alchemy table and shove them into my sack. I’d been up the rest of the night making potions, though I had to pay off the owner for midnight use. Morthal is Skyrim’s mudhole. This apothecary is one of the good things about it, except the added smell of swamp gas. They specialize in algaes and water plants. I had left the shack swiftly and ignored the giant spiders to make better time. I didn’t know what would happen if I followed the woman to Falkreath, but I had to be prepared.I say nothing to the alchemist when I leave and almost bump into a woman with large breasts and fiery eyes. We exchange pardons and I move on. I never had a problem with vampires, perhaps because I never met one until now, but I don’t change my mind with this first impression. If anything, I feel her stare at my ass as I march to the carriageman. Now that I’m free from the hunt, I pay him for Falkreath, and I wish he moved faster than my thoughts.

The man that could never be found was a chicken’s feed away and I didn’t think. The same chicken that showed me how to get out of prison. It knew of Cicero somehow, as it knew me. All I wanted to do was protect him. Make my happiness come back. Make something come back.

I know I’ll never see Aerin again. It’s easier to think she’s dead, taken the same way a lot of people went down that year. But that yearning to save someone, to find them again. I thought I could be over Cicero. There was just so much life in him. Much more than anyone I’ve ever known. He smiled with such wild ambition I thought he knew something I didn’t. What does he understand that the rest of us spend our entire lives finding? I know what I said when I was drunk. I had hoped that if I could find Cicero again, there’d be a chance that I could redeem myself for never seeking Aerin. Cicero’s not the one who needs saving.

I do.

I clench the belt along my collar. But I can’t go in blindly, the guildmaster entering a lair of assassins? They could get the better of me and hold me ransom, drain the guild dry, and kill everyone they think I love just in case. Yeah that’s too funny not to laugh out loud.

“You all right back there?” the carriageman asks.

I wipe a tear and do my best to suppress the giggles. He wouldn’t get it if I explained.

An early sun peeks through the trees, a couple hours after sunrise at least. It’s warmer further south although the rolling fog chills me and I wish I had my furs. We descend the last hill into Falkreath after a long journey with a loud mind. I desire the quiet, the stillness to contrast my screaming regret. I drop down on a pile of dead, brown leaves, but I’m surrounded by pine. The wind carries a bit of everything, even lost love.

My feet don’t move more than a step when I’m aware I don’t know what to say if I see him. My fingers are needles in the cold. A light rises in my chest, then pressure, a burn without the pain that makes me swallow hard. It moves up my throat and sticks at the back, dry bread I can’t push down without milk. I’m not afraid that he might not be in there, but that he is, and he won’t want anything to do with me. It was a one night thing and we hadn’t even…

One could say it was better than sex. To see the man in his savage form, the core of survival, violence as his tool that equalizes prey to predator. We had the thrill of death at the tips of our weapons and hot blood on the floor. We controlled the souls of fools but like fools we fled. More a fool, I found counsel in poultry.

“Need anything else?” the carriageman closes the back and locks it in place.

“A push would help,” I squeak.

The subtle cove resting under the hillside of what holds the graveyard beyond my sight is just as elusive as it was from my birds eye view before. There’s the pond, so dark it’s black, with minimal reflection. Plenty of cover behind good stocks of pine trees and no sign of the chicken. It has to be food by now, or invested into egg-laying at the nearby farm. But if that door is what it is, then someone behind it could have gotten it.

A skull with blackened eyes shapes most of the relief. It’s tucked in rock down a small path by a tree larger than the majority. A rendition of a skeleton sits beneath it in front of a pile of children’s skulls, and a downward dagger above them. Each skull is small but bears so much weight that I wonder if the skeleton had to sit because it became unbearable. Or they killed themselves because it was too much, or not enough.

If it wasn’t for me, my village would have died horribly, but they died anyway. They didn’t have to. I could’ve done something better but I was young and unimaginative. My parents couldn’t see either. They were blind by their tradition and it affected everyone. I began to see what that tradition was after my father took me home from Seben and Tulnar’s house. A tradition of manipulation and darkness in midday. When I hear the word “family,” happiness, trust, and love are antonyms. A family like mine breeds the very thing I run from. So why do I stand at this door? I don’t expect a difference, however something has changed; my past never had a clever chicken nor a sly clown. Part of me will always get a rise from the new. And for once, I found something to run to.

Breath follows the beating rhythm within the stone. A calming inhale, drums behind the ribs, then exhale. But there’s no chest that rises, nor cloth to comfort my wet face after crying from a bad fall. There’s a small ring to pull, but the thief part of me thinks to run my fingers along the frame just in case. As I touch it, a booming whisper (if there is such a thing) erupts from nowhere.

“WHAT—” the door starts but I can’t even.

“Oh my gods!” I yell and impale my fingers into my earholes.

“—IS THE MUSIC—”

“Are you kidding!?” It’s practically screaming in my head.

“—OF LIFE?”

“Holy shit.” All thought scatters and I almost forget the answer. I rub my face before I snap at it, “Silence! My _brother_.”

I cover my ears preemptively. It could take a hint from its own passphrase.

“WELCOME…HOME.”

If only it knew how demeaning that is.

Much like a cave entrance, a tunnel descends and curves, formed by chiseling away the rock from the hill it hides in, then shoring it with bigger rock. Light shines above me from a hole that vents the tunnel and puts a breeze in the pair of company banners that greet me. Red and white with handprints matching the one in the letter. I can smell the cool fog on the wind until I pass through the tunnel, stepping with nimble caution. My back’s parallel with the wall so I can glance easily both directions, and that stone door’s shrinking. Every inch I cover, my blood beats through me faster and I try to take calm, deep breaths. Anything gray and brown wears a gold coat of light from the lit sconces and raised fire pits. At the end of the curve is something like an office. Bookshelves, a table, and enough space for a small forum. Nothing says I’m going to die, but the woman at the other end of the room means I might have already.

My hair sticks to the sweat on my neck. My ears burn and my throat thickens. I suddenly smell all the potions in my bag at once and the room teeters. I catch myself with the wall. It’s not her, it’s not, it’s not. I’ll prove it to myself. I’ll walk up to her if my legs remember how. Each limb is rigid. I have to push to make one step, then another. Perfume catches me—if my insides weren’t pounding in my ears, I could hear her breath, if someone’s coming up behind me, but my blood is deafening.

She’s blond and distinctly Nord the way her jaw squares off. She stays in her spot, a gesture that she’s not a threat, but in charge, and confident she can kill me from any angle. I can see the green in her eyes now. Spring pastures after years of winter storms. The same eyes behind the masked hood in the shack. I turn my hands into fists to hide my trembling. She’d be older if she was still alive but the resemblance—I must pursue the likelihood. My mouth almost doesn’t form the name. It’s stuck in my throat with the dry bread I’ve been choking on since the ride over. At last, I just stop thinking about it, and spill.

“Aerin,” I say.

I don’t know if I want it to be true. If it is, that means I have to stay. If it isn’t, then only Cicero could keep me around.

A tiny curl flicks away at a corner of her full lips and nothing more.

“Astrid, actually,” she says.

What ever troll climbed onto my shoulders falls off now and I almost relax. I glance at a book on Sithis and resist the urge to flip through it.

“What now?” I ask.

“You start your life with the Dark Brotherhood. You’re part of a family now.”

I twist the buckle on my waist and pick at the metal.

“And this,” she motions to the room, “is our sanctuary. There’s no safer place.”

High Hrothgar. Fight me.

Aerin wore dresses but alongside her love for dolls and braiding hair, she jumped in mud puddles, and chased lizards. I can’t see the little girl wearing black and red leather. She says her name is Astrid but my doubts bring me to that day in the road where she didn’t look back. She held that doll like it was her only friend despite my screams. I didn’t exist.

Another room connects to the office ahead of me, past the table. A large bed fills it. Down the shorter hall to our right must be something bigger. I know she’s watching me take it all in but when I don’t say anything after a long while she smirks.

“That quiet, brooding style suits you.”

Meaning she couldn’t stand the sassy brat I became in the shack. I’ll keep that card in my deck for later use.

“Being part of this family means we all pull our weight to support each other. There will be contracts to carry out. I expect you to handle what you’re given. But for now, relax, meet the family, and when you’re ready, talk to Nazir who will break you in.”

She motions to follow her down the steps to the main chamber. Mushrooms grow on the edges where the tunnel opens to a smithy, a waterfall, and a diverse bunch wearing the same colors. I lock onto them but they’re far and facing someone else. Astrid’s words muffle any voices in the distance and I wish she’d shut up.

“Soon the Night Mother will arrive,” she says, “and things around here are sure to get even more interesting. One last thing, I put a welcome home present on your bed when you find it. The armor of the Dark Brotherhood. May it serve you in all your…endeavors.”

There’s an air of contempt in every dominating syllable. A holier-than-thou facade bred from such an incident as abandonment.

“Thank you,” I say distantly, mentally counting heads.

Six.

“Of course,” she says.

Plus one.

If she’s not Aerin, she’s her shadow. She carries herself like her, standing with her nose above everyone else. But as long as you are on her side, and agree with everything she says, she’ll take care of your hair.

She finally creeps back up to her room but I don’t watch. I stick to a pillar near a workspace and observe a child retelling her murder of a pedophile. Grelod’s end feels more justified now but it doesn’t satisfy my itching need to find Cicero. I didn’t find it wise to mention him to Aerin; she could use it against me. They all could.

I learn their names through their banter. Festus, Arnbjorn, Veezara, etc.. A lot more colorful than the thieves lurking in the cistern. There’s even a green one. He seems polite. But the silver one makes my skin tighten. None of them mention Cicero. I don’t make myself known when the party splits, although I don’t try to hide. I wait for Nazir to be alone and approach.

“So you’re the newest member of our dwindling, dysfunctional little family,” he says. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

I cross my arms, hoping to trap my hands between my ribs to stop fidgeting. The longer I stand in one spot the more I want to charge through all the rooms, shouting his name until he answers. I get through the introductions and after he gives me the contracts, he asks if I’m in a hurry because my foot is tapping the ground. I tell him I have to pee. There’s a latrine somewhere but I learn this sanctuary is a maze when he tries to direct me to it.

“No one’s using it right now?” I lead. “All six of you?”

“I mean Festus could be. He’s old. But, there’s just seven of us. Eight now.”

I ignore his request to escort me. The place has everything I’d need, including a pet spider. I rush down every hall, check every bed and table, any sign that he’s been here. The skeleton in the spider’s pond is too old, and the letter floating about proves it. No jester clothes hanging near the fire in the dining hall, no questionable body parts in the larder, and no stories flittering in my ears about him. I stop the search in a red room. Light casts through the stained glass motif. Red, yellow, and blue. Another giant skull, a macabre pattern of bones, and more children. I count the heads. Six…plus one…plus one.

He’s not here.

I slump onto a bench and it breaks under me. I don’t know why I bothered. Yes, I do, I just don’t want to keep going through the motions. I do anyway.

Footsteps shift in the hallway. I don’t get up.

“Let’s tidy up as best we can for the Night Mother’s arrival,” Festus’ gravelly old voice carries.

“Did Astrid say it’s okay?” Veezara’s natural vibrato resounds.

“No, but this place is a sty. I don’t want to look like our home is in disarray.”

Footsteps move away. The pair walk into the room Astrid left my armor in.

Festus adds, “Now help me move this bed. I don’t wanna miss lunch because I threw out my back.”

“Gabriella said we’re having something new. Do you know?”

A bed frame drags across the ground.

Festus grunts. “Yup.” Drag. Grunt. “Chicken.”

WHAT.

My muscles seize and I think something pops in my neck when I jerk around. I make for the door and hope I’m heading toward the dining hall. I don’t know what I want to do. I want to tear it apart myself, strangle it, pluck its feathers and then chop its head off. Maybe I want to do those things to myself because I didn’t try to keep her around. She makes me feel like a fool! It! It makes me feel like a damned—!

Silver hair and a chest meet my face.

“GAH-ah!” I jump back.

“Hey.”

Arnbjorn fills the passageway and I’ve no way around him. I clench my bow but I’m not ready to use it. I hold my breath, remembering words. The stairs to the kitchen are just ahead. I glimpse one of the chandeliers under his arm before he blocks it out.

“So you’re the new meat.” He walks me back until I’m up against a wall. “I give you a week before you’re dead in a ditch.”

I wince. My bow trembles in my grasp so I press my back into the wall and it stops. He’s familiar and somehow my body recognizes it before I do. I try to peer around his biceps as large as my face, but only catch the golden light behind him.

He sniffs me. “Heh. Maybe less.”

Gabriella screeches and wings flapping beyond Arnbjorn snap me back.

I shout, “_Wuld_!”

I’m shot forward, a cannonball knocking over Arnbjorn, with organs dropped behind me to pick up after the dining room stops spinning. I grip a support beam just off the stairs. Below is the kitchen and Gabriella casting spells at her elusive dinner running across the table. She notices me in her peripherals.

“Hello, dear,” Gabriella. “We haven’t properly met, but I’m in the middle—”

“CHICKEN!” I roar.

Below a stream of green, the chicken stops at the end of the table, tucks its head, turns, and gawks at me.

It clucks.

I jump the stair case, arms ready to snatch her, not thinking about the landing. It flaps off the edge as I slam into the wood. Dinnerware flies. Vegetables left out now scatter on the floor. Table’s made like a Nord. I leap off and slip on a tomato. I smack down where the chicken would have been. He runs out toward the spider’s lair. I scramble to a full sprint and Gabriella jumps out of the way. Tomato remnants stamp across the stone and I regain my boot grip. Up the short stairs, a quick glance to see the kid but no bird, and I go left. The chicken’s halfway through the main chamber, running in Ss and cackling. Veezara gets a whiff of me when I blow past him.

“Come here, drumstick!” I yell.

It runs around the furthest pillar then hops on a mound between the waterfall and Aerin’s workspace. It scratches at the ground.

“A challenge?” I scrape my toe boot in the dirt. “I accept!”

It flaps open its wings fully outward and heaves its chest, then charges at me. I meet her halfway before she veers off and up to the office.

“You fucking chicken!”

I chase her up more stairs, Aerin’s blond hair blurred in my wake, and through the tunnel, where the chicken stops at the door. I crouch down, hands up, feet spread, ready to tackle her—IT!

“Where you gonna go now?”

It clucks and jumps up to fly through the hole. It flaps effortlessly, breaking at certain parts it can grab onto with its feet before ascending all the way up and out.

I exert a forceful pull of the ring handle and I’m outside in the bright, late morning. It’s not by the pool or on the ground, so I check above. Up on the rock, the chicken stands triumphant, high over the door.

“Here’s something you may not know, chicken.” I set my foot onto the lowest rock. “I…” And lift myself up. “…am a buttheaded goat.”

It pecks the rock, goading me to ascend. I visualize my path and go for it. Halfway up I notice the stones are wet, not drenched, but slippery enough from the dense fog, that I’m slipping. My stomach leaps when I almost drop, but I dig my boots in.

Legs, give me strength, and I’ll give you protein!

I strain to push myself up the last bit. The chicken stares down, then back to pecking. It’s so close I can’t stand it. I reach for it and lose my grip. I fall and break my head and back against rock before I roll, and land against the damp, cold dirt. My moans are a good sign but I don’t feel like a winner. Before the rest of me turns sore, I turn on my side and curl up, holding the back of my head where it throbs the worst.

To top the brew off, the chicken walks into my line of sight, and scratches at the ground, as if to say “I told you so” and that it agrees with me. I am a buttheaded goat.

“You knew,” I groan, on the verge of crying. “You knew he’d be here, didn’t you? But he’s not.” I hold my breath before I leak. “You were wrong.”

It turns about and steps backward, shoving its feathers in my face. I buzz my lips to get it to move, but I get a feather up my nose instead. I snort it out and she turns. Her beady eyes gape at me in her jerking head, then she fluffs herself up, and lies next to me. She’s not really red, more of an orange with yellow tips.

“Guess you’re not lunch now,” I mumble.

She rapidly shakes her head, like shaking off a chill, before nestling down. Her bumpy eyelid creeps upward.

“You don’t deserve soup. If I’m going to kill you, you’re going in something worthy.”

She softly bocks.

“Yup. Murder Lesson One: make it worth it.”

Her eyes close as she mutters clucks in her throat.

“Bet one of these contracts has a recipe.”

She doesn’t seem at all concerned but I need a distraction. This damnable chicken brings out the worst in me and I’m sure I pissed off the entire brotherhood with my antics. I could leave, never come back, but something tells me I should stay. If only to try on those new skins. They kill people, sometimes bad people, but I’m going to need more reason to follow the brotherhood than blind murder. It has to be worth it, to mean something. I had studied Grelod before my decision. I didn’t need to be drunk to do it, as proof from how it went, I shouldn’t have been. These people Nazir putinto my hands could be Grelods. And if their hobby so happens to be cooking, I won’t have a chicken taunting me with my failures. As food is good for the body, a worthy murder is good for the soul. In the Dark Brotherhood, each harmonizes the sum.


	11. Goodbye, Goodbye, Hello, Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri kills officially and a surprise awaits her back at the sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Sithis, this was a struggle. Enjoy.

Beitild’s body sprawls over the fire pit. Panic claws at my lungs and I dash forward to pull her off the spit. The arrow in her back snaps when she hits the floor. Fire eats away her shirt. I stamp out the flame with my boot. When it doesn’t work I slap at it with my hands only to think of a bard beating drums, in this case, breasts, and I flip her over instead. I’m not scared the house’ll burn down and people will ask questions. That’d be plus up here in ass-frozen Dawnstar. No. Far worse.

The smell.

Its pungency I never forget that when I even think about it, I hallucinate it. And I don’t have time to clean up my vomit in my victim’s house. If she had been clad in metal instead of a flammable miner’s outfit, this could have been cut and dry. Soldier versus…whatever I am. Mistress thief turned hitman. Hitmer? I digress, I see cheese.

I open my bag to place the wedge somewhere among my other dozen I acquired on the trip up here, and there’s only a sliver of space. It squeezes in, barely, but I try to buckle the flap it won’t reach the notch. The broken shaft of black arrow pokes out from Beitild’s back, and blood has begun to clot around the wound. I assume it is, only because the cloth is damp, and losing its shine. I’m not one to waste my best arrows on townsfolk, but the curator of Daedric artifacts has questionable tastes that worry Dawnstar citizens. If they don’t think the Dark Brotherhood did it, they’ll blame someone else.

I struggle again to close my bag, straining to press down my fatty habit, but it refuses.

Beitild’s vacant expression and cocked jaw drools onto the wood. Eventually she’s going to dump the rest of her liquids out and I don’t want to be around then. My knuckles match the sky when I squeeze my bag hard. I chuck it at her face; it’s stiffened and uglier in death to fit her contempt in life. The bag rolls over and falls, leaving pounds of eider and goat on her.

It’s a stupid addiction and it weighs more now without the magic. Half the time I don’t recall doing it and I had spent months with my old satchel that my compulsion weighed nothing so I became accustomed. Everything in that bag was organized, even the help. As long as no one looked too long into it, no one suspected. One of the guards could be hoarding it now. Selling my goods; all that work.

Dawnstar’s coast runs long, its water spotted with masses of land short and tall, and the sky a hazy shade of what peacefulness should look like. I’ve locked the door and broke the pins before making my footprints up to the edge of this harbor, near the man sitting at his small boat. The chicken minds her business nearby with some bugs she found among pebbles.

“I can take you to any harbor you like,” he says.

But I ignore him. He’s not my problem. This damned bag is. Full of shit too heavy to carry and too full to carry to make it heavier.I measure the distance, estimate the weight, and after one last go to get the buckle to close I spit from clenched teeth, pushing rage through my lips. I heave the bag inland, down the beach. It’ll only wash up to shore anyway and fish don’t eat cheese. Maybe the rats will get to it, then find the town comfortable enough to infest. Dawnstar is a waste. A basic mine and some fishing. I overheard the jarl arguing over Imperial versus Stormcloak business and all those feelings brewed themselves again. The bag flies and disappears over a bush.

“Did someone you know die in the slaughter?” the ferryman says.

I huff, then after a longer pause of giving him my best glare, I ask, “What slaughter?”

“You didn’t hear?” He picks at his teeth, either for effect, or to groom himself after a snack. “The massacre of Whiterun. Someone killed all the guards.”

Whiterun runs red. I wasn’t going back but my carriage passes and I see what’s left. Guards arrange pyres outside the gates, so not all of them died. Even their jarl helps carry wood with Imerciless walking next to him.

“This is as close as they’ll let me,” the carriageman stops before the turn to the stables. “City’s closed until posted. We live in dark days, darker with the dragons flying about.”

“It was always dark. Dragons are just easier to see for the people too scared to look.”

I drop and head towards Ivarstead with the chicken, imagining what’s over the Whiterun gates. Blood staining the streets, crimson water washing piles of corpses, the castle splattered with death. I want to turn around and jump the wall, bask in the aftermath of a vision I longed to commit when I escaped jail. The stink faintly returns, but I shudder when I feel a guard’s bulge on my bare leg as present as it was weeks ago. How they pinned me down and dragged their fingers through my hair. Now their carcasses will pile in the fire. Whoever they pissed off wanted to send a message and I wish it was me.

Beitild gave me the easiest reason to end her, as easy as it would be to justify Whiterun’s diminished ranks, but Ennodius was a curve. I had to watch the mill for a while to see if his name would spring up and no one talked about him. I knew where he was but being a hermit is not enough for me. Finally, I had gone up to him, and tried being his friend first, but he was so paranoid, he freaked out on me, and ran into a family of mudcrabs.

“The Banshee of Blodblomyr!” he raved. “The Banshee! The Banshee!”

I had tried to save him but he flailed so much trying to get away that he ran into my loosed arrow’s trajectory.

“Ah shit,” I had said.

Then the mudcrabs came after me, so I had chowder instead of conjuring a poultry recipe, and napped in Ennodius’ tent before I moved on to Ivarstead, to my final contract.

“Another lucky night, chicken,” I said.

When I arrive, it’s almost night, and I snoop around town until I notice an abandoned house, run down by weather and neglect. I wouldn’t think on it otherwise but a shadow moves through it, and I know someone’s occupying the sad sight. Nazir told me he was a beggar and so I cross the river, with enough change for a room at the inn, and a charitable donation.

Narfi paces frantically, covered in dirt, a sour, aging smell hanging over the space he lingers.

“Hiding,” he says. “Hiding, hiding, hiding. Where are you? Why are you gone so long?”

He cracks. He hunches and hits himself in the head with balled fists. Smacking harder for each word he sputters.

“Reyda!” He cries out, spins as if to go into a full sprint out of the house, and sees me instead. “Who-who-who are you? What do you want!?”

He stands at the stop of his steps to what should be his entrance. I keep a good couple paces back in case he lunges at me, but my neck’s not tingling.

“Are you looking for someone?” I ask.

“My sister…” He looks off into the distance behind me. His eyes tear up. “She was so nice to Narfi. Why would she leave and never come back?”

My chest pings and my tongue swells when I try to say, “It couldn’t have been your fault.”

“Narfi is sad Reyda’s not here.”

I close the gap between us. “I was looking for someone too.”

“You were? Why stop? Narfi would never stop!”

I itch my eye and look at my boots.

“Because sometimes…people don’t want to be found. And we have to learn to let them go, no matter how much joy they gave us. It’s selfish to keep them if they don’t want to be kept.”

“But she’s Narfi’s sister. Narfi said goodbye to Father, said goodbye to Mother, but…” his hands shake and he appears to want to hit himself again but he holds his arms rigid. “…never to Reyda.”

Maybe that’s why it hurts. I play back the last moments of that one night. The twinkly eye before the fight, my scream to run, and my new power gaining the upper hand. I see the word form in my mouth, and the gate holding us back. My shout blasts open the doors. He flies past me and I never get the chance to make it back on the carriage. I could have if I knew that whirlwind shout. If I had just went to the Greybeards in the first place. But then, I might not have ever met such color pinned by bad luck on a dirt road.

“Do you know where Reyda might have gone?”

He twists his fingers together. “R-Reyda said she went to gather plants, the she would be back. She never came back. She never—Reyda!”

He’s beyond calming and I let him cry it out as I take my leads to the inn. I hadn’t planned on staying, but killing someone with unfinished business makes my underclothes shift wrong. It’s warm and gold inside, with different faces but same floor plans as the other inns. I prefer to stand at the bar when I talk to the keep, a balding man named Wilhelm. He mentions Reyda and where she used to gather herbs and such.

“You won’t find anything in the dark,” Wilhelm says as I leave.

Not with the map markers you gave me, shithead. After walking all over the small islands east of town, dredging the water, and hiking the edge of the forest, I about give up, and rest on the bridge to town. As the moon rises high and I stand over the river, looking down, I find a skeleton near the bridge. Not ideal, but curious; I make my way down and find a satchel filled with rare ingredients. I think Reyda fought some daedra to get this. That’s what I thought until I saw human flesh covered in cheese cloth. I swallow the bile I burp up, then take the satchel, and buckle it onto my belt. Moonlight glistens on something shiny beneath the river’s surface. A necklace? I pull it out. The chain sings against the pendant as I roll it in my hand. Narfi will want this with the bad news, but Wilhelm had said that it’d break his heart to know his sister’s dead, and he’s been miserable for too long.

I drop the necklace in front of Wilhelm, a silver momento in the midst of his gold palace. He leans over it and his empty tankard of mead.

“I found her,” I say before I take the necklace, and turn it over to show the elegant letters R and W. “Fancy inscription.” Wilhelm reacts the way I expect, with a deep sigh, and sagging shoulders. “You loved her, something happened, and you want to move on, but Narfi won’t. He can’t.”

“We tried to find her, we really did.” His voice cracks like Narfi’s.

“No one in this village might have killed her?”

“No,” he accuses my short-sightedness. “Reyda was a sweet woman.” He uses the dish rag to dab his eyes. “It’s been over a year and Narfi never gave up. It drove him mad. I fear something like that would happen to me.”

And me.

“You wanted it to be over for both of you,” I say. “Close the wound and begin to heal. That’s why you lied to him in hopes that’d help.”

“I just want peace. Narfi’s suffered enough. His entire family is gone. And I…I don’t think I could love again with him in such pain.”

I cut deep. “Is that why you contacted the Dark Brotherhood?”

Sadness turns to confusion, flushing his cheeks and burning away the tears sticking under his eyes.

“I need your help,” I interrupt before he asks something he knows the answer to.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Help Narfi say goodbye.”

I wait outside Vilemyr Inn in the morning, bundled up in a large pelt, sipping hot water. I sent a courier out yesterday, then made rounds about Ivarstead, and helped the town. Each one had their problems like I knew they would. The fun one had me chasing a ghost who turned out to be a corporeal dumbcluck in hiding. I took his things. Wilhelm asked me to watch the inn while he tended to Narfi and I might have surprised him I managed well, even wiped his collection of cutlery. Never had time to sleep. Figured I would on the trip back, or crash in the sanctuary with all those questionable strangers watching.

Wheels roll and a carriage creaks as it moves over the bridge. I stand and walk out to the road. Delvin’s in the back of the carriage with Sigaar at the reins. They park in front of me and Delvin hops over the side.

“Milady,” he says.

“Help me with this,” I say after I drop my things on the inn porch next to the chicken.

I take him around to the side, where I point out the large box. Sigaar assists, rather insists that he take over for me to get it into the back. We look over our work and I’m the only one that sees it. A dead woman’s crate that sticks out the back. At least _this_ carriage won’t break.

Delvin assures me. “We’ll give her a proper place.”

I barely nod, staring at the wagon wheel, but looking in the past.

A man’s cry resounds from down the road. Narfi runs toward them, waving his arms, with Wilhelm slogging behind.

“Goodbye, Reyda!” he cries.

Delvin pats my backside and hops up next to the coffin. “Got your hands full, there. I’ll see ya.”

Narfi and I watch the carriage turn around. It’s no easier for me than it is for the brother, the last living member of his family, watching the carriage leave. Wilhelm returns to the inn but he’ll have to get someone else to fill in if he wants any rest. I won’t be around much longer.

Narfi waves before the last length of the wagon rolls behind a hill and is gone. He stands there, a girl on a cliff watching her sailor boyfriend long after he’s cleared the horizon. Full of hope.

“I’ll see you at home soon!”

I slip a hidden knife down against my forearm and grip it.

If it wasn’t for the ethereal potions I swiped I wouldn’t have made it out of the town without a wound. I find it blatantly obvious that bad decisions overshadow moral obligations. I hate not knowing who performed the sacraments. It’s easier to decide when I know the intentions of the request. Look in the killer’s eyes and ask him why he would make someone else the weapon. Why deflect, why not take responsibility? Why need me? I know why Aventus needed me. The innocent are often frail, unsupported, and ignored. They’re good all the time so why look their way? Except when the innocent aren’t innocent according to society’s standards. In the Dark Brotherhood, the assassins are innocent. They are the tools. The killers are the ones chanting the sacrament. I was Aventus’. It felt good to help. Free all the orphans. I still stick to that. If there are more contracts, I’ll ask Nazir for the names of who made them. I need more. I can’t keep killing without knowing; it’s not right. It’s a long way from wanting to get caught and so recklessly betraying an entire clan of Nords. That was fun, that was the opposite of boring. And so was Cicero. I thought I could have both, the fun and the purpose, but people who wander Skyrim alone often end up like Narfi’s sister. Maybe not murdered, not how he fought in Whiterun. He probably went to bury his mother then off himself. A place I can never go, where I’ll never find him. I must face facts and probability. He’s dead. Just like everyone else I care about. I felt bad using Wilhelm’s knife for his own kill. Maybe why I wasn’t so secret about stabbing Narfi in the kidney, so it wouldn’t be pinned on him. They were both grieving. I couldn’t let Wilhelm take the fall like I planned. What he said to me about peace, about love; I knew that feeling. Now there’s a new feeling, one that finds meaning in the brotherhood. There’s worth in preparing to kill a man if it springs new life in others. I’m just not seeing the whole picture yet. And I can’t scratch the itch called Aerin. I can feel it but I can’t see or someone or thing doesn’t want me to see. I want to know what all this is for. I just need to figure out how.

Wind from a coming storm catches my hair and blows in as I enter the sanctuary. Chicken clucks as she walks past me for whatever reason. Notes of a conversation thrum through the tunnel as if underwater. I expect the door closing to cease the murmurs, but they continue, louder, strained. The chicken scatters out of sight.

“Hey!” I hiss-per.

Murmurs grow into words when I reach Aerin’s room and I don’t believe what I hear because everything that’s come so far is not ever what I want it to be. But my ears never deceive. The pins in a lock, footsteps in a cave, a beast tracking…

…a man arguing.

“But the Night Mother is mother to all!”

Every piece of me stands at attention. The hairs on my neck, my heart once locked away. All of me has eyes pointed on that voice emanating from the main chamber. The closer I get the more breathless I feel. I gasp, stiff and unable to think. I walk in a dream, slow, not sure I feel the stairs beneath me, but I move, and the hole in the rock frames the black and red members facing a box big enough for a coffin. And beside it…

Him.

Logic abandons me to surprise’s whim. He’s muddier but not one thread out of place. Hair the color of fallen, dead pine needles. A cheek rosied from the outside, but I see little more. My boot scuffs the ground and he stops talking, stiffened. I lose what sensation I had in weakening limbs. I could fall or I could fly and in limbo I forget how to speak. My jaw slacks and this great room suddenly feels like the mother’s coffin. But then, he slowly turns his head, and the walls fade away. His grin builds to a smile and the ground ceases existence. I’m floating. His honeyed eyes find me and the last vestiges of thought sizzle and die. Warmth radiates under my suit and it suffocates me. I want to run. I want to throw myself on him but all he does is smile over his shoulder. He traces his bottom lip and lets his finger rest there before letting it fall. And without me hearing what the others had to say, he responds as if he did, and turns back to them abruptly.

“Oh yes, yes, yes!” He cries. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

I’m tethered when he doesn’t look back again and I can do nothing but walk the path into the crowd, staring like I don’t believe he’ll stay if I blink.

“But make no mistake,” Aerin says, “I am the leader of this sanctuary. My word is law. Are we clear on that point?”

He beams and as I stroll behind her, his eyes lie on me. “Oh yes, mistress! Perfectly. You’re the boss.”

Then he tends to his mother and Aerin obstructs my view. I can only imagine what he’s doing now and my heart races too fast to pay any attention to what she’s saying to me. I lean to get a better look but Nords are tall and I swear she called him a muttering fool a second ago, so I’ve completely shut her out as anyone worth listening to. Seek out Muiri in Markarth. That’s all she had to say. I nod to pretend I respect her just to get her out of my face.

I advance and waste no time but he mutters something.

“Oh yes, mistress. You’re the boss…for now…”

And then he spins about and stops me from doing anything else.

“Hello, hello!” he says loud enough for anyone in any room to hear. “I’m called Cicero. And you are?”

“Igniri?” I say.

“Igniri! A pleasure to find new hands for our dark lord. Are you new?” He waves me to follow him up past the pool and up the slope to the room with the stained glass. “You simply must tell me all about yourself.”

“Uh…”

We walk further down where the new bedding went, which now clucks, and I see he almost wishes he could close the door, and lock it. But he compromises and lowers his voice, turning on a heel, and giving me the most intense eye contact that I feel myself blush.

“My, my, mistress,” he grins. “What have you been doing without Cicero?”

Hair raises on my nape and I moisten my lips though my throat is dry.

I swallow.

“Nothing fun,” I say.


	12. Love Lasts the Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cicero and Igniri reconnect over their distrust for Astrid, but there's not enough time and privacy in the sanctuary to say what they want, so they take on the Muiri contract to avoid the brewing tensions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should not have taken so long. I apologize. Interval scenes are the hardest for me. Like needlework. All the little threads gotta go together before making the big pictures appear. Bahhh. My mother's cookie recipe at the end. Enjoy on all your holidays. Truly. They are the best cookies ever.

Half the room has fallen apart and no one’s fixed it. Mushrooms grow through the cave-in on the far left space. Shelves are pushed away and drawers sit atop uneven ground, scarce of any valuables, dusty, and neglected. The only table is cluttered, left in the middle of the room with askew benches. The one tidy thing is the bed shoved against the back wall. This hole is a storage closet more than a guest room but it’s distant from the others, out of the way. Still no locked doors; a pity.

I wrestle urges I didn’t know I’d ever have again, but he’s here, and I want to do things, see things I can’t see through his clothes. I’d start with the collar and twist my way down to his chest. Maybe, if it’s not too far. I never know if it’s too much or too little. I’ve never had my way with a man without the intent to end him. With Cicero, I want to start, beginning with a fire that’s burning already, caused by looking at me the way he does whenever we meet. Memories flood me. At the farm he was a simple jester seeking help. Now? More than he let on.

“Does she have a name?” he asks, climbing the last syllable up like a song note.

“Who?” I say.

“The chicken under the bed. You keep peeping over there more than enough to make it conversation.”

“No. No name, just Chicken.” I try not to look at the bed again. “I’m going to cook her.”

“Wait ’til she lays eggs so we have breakfast too.”

I’d love to have the morning with him.

“You changed your hair,” he says. Before I come up with an excuse, he adds, “Didn’t you braid it?”

“Yeah, but, it’s a pain, and I kind of like it how it is.”

“Oh.” Cicero reaches for a strand.

I slap his hand down. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Quite the reflex, mistress.” He grins, shaking off the sting.

“Yeah, well.” Getting pinned and ravaged by guards will do that. I clear my throat. “What happened to you? I got that woman’s message—Camilla—she told me what you said.”

That happy disposition rots and he blends into the rocks and fungus.

“Cicero apologizes. Torn, torn.” He hides his face in his gloves.

“Maybe we should sit.”

I take the chair at the end of the table and he takes the bench. An old mead barrel sits on the corner nearest to me, with mugs lied about a serving plate. There’s a dresser that could be used to stow clothes, though I don’t see him with nothing but that outfit. His jacket is patched with offset colored fabric, some jobs used black thread, and others red. One pant leg had a huge slash but it’s stitched amateurishly. Something my mother would tell me to do again. And she did after my first race through the forest. I wanted to be like Father, hunting, and I saw a bunny. Came home, dress torn, no bunny. Half my wardrobe hung on antlers when I was a girl. I could never fold dresses without Mother berating me. So Father made a wardrobe with a tree we cut down. I never wore pants because I wore what Mother sewn. One dress a year, if that, on my birthday. She got so mad that I was the only girl who couldn’t keep anything nice. What’s the fun in that, I thought. And with all the riches I have now I still don’t care about a little stitchwork. Clothes are to be used, not caged (there’s that mental ride again). Well, there isn’t a wardrobe in Cicero’s room, but there is that bed. If I desired I could push Cicero backwards with a _Fus_ and he’d fall onto it. I’d finally know the truth: how he could hold that cart up without breaking in half. Might need to fix the bed after, though.

“You should have been here before me,” I say. “You weren’t. You were just…not where I was.”

“I had to make sure Mother would be safe,” he says. “I secured her elsewhere until I knew I could come here. You must not have been here long.”

“I arrived a couple days ago. Not enough to trust anyone.”

“Wise words.”

“What about a jester? Should I be trusting him or will he run?”

“Sweet Igniri told Cicero to run. And I did. I ran and ran so very far. With cart and Mother swift to Dawnstar.” He holds a finger to his lips, a secret between us.

I whisper, “Dawnstar?” I squeeze my legs closed when I catch my knees shaking. “That’s the complete opposite of Falkreath.”

“I didn’t want the guards to catch on to me in case others got wind. And I didn’t want to thrust myself into this sanctuary until I knew. I laid low for as long as perseverance enabled. Until temptation took me.”

Oh, the way he speaks. I cross my knee over the other. My foot wants to dance so I wrap it behind my heel.

“Temptation?” I ask.

“Yes. I had to take a detour.”

Cicero grins and reaches beneath the table. I don’t see what he’s got until he slides it up his back and pulls a strap over his shoulder. A backpack.

My heart flies and almost jolts me off the stool.

I cry out, “My backpack!”

And he hands it to me but I think I snatched it first and I snuggle the rich, brown leather newly stained with dark splatters but I don’t care. I inspect the smaller pockets before unbuckling the main flap. I stop when I see him beaming at me, leaned in, elbows resting on his knees, palms holding up his cheeks. Streams of blood fill my imagination and I don’t wonder about the leather stains. I know.

“You killed all those people,” I say. “For this.”

For me.

Heat sinks into my cheeks.

“I killed them because you were the only innocent.”

Nonetheless, for me. I lean in too, but I hug the pack so hard it’s become my safety, a wall.

“Cicero…” My bag suddenly feels so small. “I’m not…nothing about me is…” Light. Is it lighter? I bounce it. “Did you look inside?”

“Oh, Cicero doesn’t pry. I was in enough trouble diverting my attention from Mother. I knew I shouldn’t have gone but I just had to. Cicero’s thoughts devoured him so. I wanted to stay, wanted to hide, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave Mother and I couldn’t leave you. Torn, torn!”

I wave him off his distress. I don’t know how far our voices can carry in this place, but they’ll hit Gabriella’s ears first, and I stole her chance at chicken soup.

“What happened in Whiterun?” I ask.

He could have told me the story one thousand times and I’d be as enthralled as the first hearing. The way he describes the bodies, the blood spurting out, and how his knife stuck through armor before he had to really push it in. Cicero regales and I step into his boots. I hold the daggers. I feel the lives leaving. He focuses on the guards, a whirlwind through the hell I lived in for weeks, leveled in minutes.

I try to sound practical. “I cleared my name on the books.” But this smile refuses to quit. “You didn’t have to.”

Cicero squeals, “Oh, but I _did_ when they remembered me. They remembered you too but in a much more disgraceful light.” His voice blackens into a a gravelly texture I’m familiar with when I offered to leave Mother behind at the stables. “The things they said about you. Oh.” He shudders. “But the stories I found most interesting. That is, before my little conniption.”

“There were stories?”

Although I had a feeling of what, I like hearing him talk.

“Decades ago, near Markarth, they saw a great dragon burst forth. Three heads, six horns, white feathered wings singed. Everything in its path burnt to ash.” Cicero pauses for effect, or to watch my reaction, to see if I’ll shift. “And then just weeks ago, the only survivor of the dragon’s massacre turns up on a dragon raid, and takes its soul for her own.”

“Bored guards tend to exaggerate,” I brush it off.

“Do they?” He grabs my leg to stop it bouncing. I didn’t notice I was doing it. But his hand, along the curve above where he fixed my ankle, stops all breath. “Dragonborn?”

Soon he’ll have killed enough guards to find out my whole past. It’s better if he hears it from the source than superstitious kids who got it from hearsay. He’s on to me. He knows I skimmed the truth but he’d have to understand, right? He wasn’t honest with me either and I don’t blame him for it, considering the vibe I got off Aerin and her gang. She’s the last person I’d want to know anything about me.

Footsteps aggravate the dirt in the hall, and march toward the room.

I jinxed it, didn’t I?

Aerin calls, “Knock, knock!”

My pulse races. Cicero pulls his hand gracefully away, but not before tracing a spiral over my knee in playful tease. Every hair on me stands at attention and I spring off the stool. Aerin strolls in and feigns surprise to my presence, or really did not expect me.

She says, “Our two newest members in the same room. Getting acquainted?”

“Yes. I just had some questions.”

How can air be awkward and heavy? It’s stifling in here. A cookie jar that reads “Aerin Only” and it’s now empty with crumbs all over me.

Aerin leans to one side. “The maiden of quiet and brooding has questions for the Keeper. Ah I see. Hope he hasn’t bored you with the tenets yet.”

But what kind of cookies?

“The what?” I say.

“Good. Unless you want to stay awake it’s best to leave the details to me.”

Cicero’s face hasn’t moved from that polite grin since she walked in. Almost as if a dwarf turned him into one of their mechanical beasts and fixed him in place. I might find the switch under his clothes later. He should’ve stayed in Dawnstar. Why would he even come here if he knew something was off?

“Actually, I wanted him to help me with the contract. Learn more about the Brotherhood so I don’t bother you as I know you’re a busy woman.”

“Oh.”

“I was going to ask Festus but…”

“He’s a cranky ol’ coot, yes, I know. Well, that seems all right. Having a veteran with you on your first real contract couldn’t hurt.”

Cicero darts a flash of insistent “don’t” at me.

“Is that all right with you, _Keeper_? I know you have a lot to do, what with the Night Mother just getting here and all.”

“Yes, mistress. Lots to do, but if our sister wishes to know of our traditions then why not fill two needs with one deed?”

“Good, good.” Aerin looks me up and down. “Good.”

Cicero asks, “Was there something you came here for?”

She shakes a thought out. “Oh. Yes.Gabriella and Festus raised the Night Mother to her proper place, as you wanted.”

“You touched her?” His voice shakes. “Without me?” The muscle in his neck twitches.

So Mother is the cookie jar, then. Uh oh, Aerin.

“A levitation spell, simple and safe. No one laid a dirty grub on her, I swear. She’s waiting for your personal care in the chapel.”

“…Thank you,” he deflates.

Aerin smirks and leaves us with an extra strut in her sway. Cicero’s hand grips his sheathed knife at the hip when I turn to him. I gently ease him out of tension, but like an alert dog, he continues to stare toward the doorway.

“Hey, let’s check on Mother, hm?”

“Ass-trid did that on purpose,” Cicero mutters.

In case she’s still in earshot, I say, “That’s a good idea. A quick check then we’ll go.” I eye his hand and hold my breath to brace for it. I reach and my fingers slip easily into his palm. I grip and gingerly move him out the room. “So who is this Night Mother?”

But he keeps muttering. “To show she’s really in charge. She’s just another pretender. She’s—did you just ask ‘who is the Night Mother?’”

Cicero stops me and I remember his strength. My shoulder especially. I realize he let me take him, otherwise he’d never have moved. His brown eyes meet me with surprised confusion that all irritable thought about Aerin drops, and it’s about me again.

“Surely, you jest,” he tacks on.

I press my mouth up and feel my chin wrinkle. When I first heard about the Dark Brotherhood, I thought it was another rumor. Then, a cult. Now, a cult with a control freak. But Cicero’s a part of it, and so is this mother. A mother that drives his love mad between honoring her and—if I can think it without giggling—being with me. I squeeze my backpack. I haven’t let go of it since.

“Your mother is…the Night Mother?” I ask.

It’s his turn to take me as he twirls about and walks me the last few steps to the chapel. A faint red glow casts behind him.

“Not just my mother. Our mother.” Cicero bows and waves an arm toward the room. “This is the Night Mother.”

I’ve been in here before, I broke a bench. But what should feel the same doesn’t. I had called it the red room, but Aerin officializes as the chapel, and with Cicero’s invite, it pulls me. I’m drawn, a rope tied to my ribs, and the once abandoned space floods with intrigue. A standing coffin holds itself in front of the glass motif, rosy scarlet bouncing at all angles and highlighting the intricacies of the coffin’s design, a symbol of who’s within. It almost scrapes the ceiling; a mummy’s head adorned by a bowed headdress, and the body a zippered pattern,tight threads under a magnifying glass striping all the way around, hugged at the neck by two skeletal arms. It can open at the center-front. I sense the lock inside, but that’s not why I find myself on the steps surrounded by burning candles.

I hear something.

It mutes Cicero’s footsteps behind me, the waterfall before me, and the heartbeat in me, as if nothing exists beyond the dead except silence. It’s impossible. In the caves I’ve slept in, even the quietest become the loudest because my organs protest, and pound in my head with such volume it’s hard to sleep. I couldn’t even hear giants fucking let alone rats.

“Did you hear something?” Cicero beams.

I see the words mouthed but they’re inaudible. And when I step back, volume returns, and I watch the flames on the wicks flicker to gather my thoughts again.

“Nothing,” I say.

He slumps. “Wishful thinking.”

I don’t explain what I really mean. I’m confused regardless to try. But was he expecting his mother to talk to him? She’s probably bones in there.

“So this is Ma.”

“In the flesh.” He stands alongside me, chest puffed, arms crossed. “Our Unholy Matron. The undying spirit of a great woman who birthed the children of Sithis.”

“It’s…” Eeriely beautiful. “…the reason your wagon broke.”

“And how we—” He trails off, and I look around to find no one spying on us, but I think he just got cold feet. “You helped me save the Night Mother, an act she will never forget.”

_She_ won’t or…?

“Are we off to Markarth, then?”

It’s my turn to cross my arms. “You sure you can leave her here with Aerin?”

“Astrid, you mean? Oh I’m not certain of that but she wouldn’t dare defile the very being who allows her authority. If one thing is out of place, I’ll know it, and Ass-trid will know the end of my blade.” He strokes the casket and mutters, “Oh yes.” Then smiles at me, still murmuring for my ears only. “Besides, all that space between us, I didn’t care for it. Not one teensy tiny bit. And there’s so much to catch up on, starting with the chicken.”

“She’ll inevitably follow us, forewarning.”

Cicero flashes a dimple with his grin. “There’s something about you, elf of night, that I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Then I better give him the best views.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mother's Molasses Sugar Cookies
> 
> Yields a couple dozen? I dunno. I end up eating a lot of dough before I'm done. Double this recipe if you're tempted like me.
> 
> 3/4 cup butter (melted)  
1 cup brown sugar (packed)  
1/4 cup molasses  
1 egg (beaten)  
2 teaspoons baking soda  
2 cups all-purpose flour  
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves  
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger  
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon  
1/2 teaspoon salt
> 
> Preheat oven to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C).
> 
> Blend: butter, sugar, molasses and egg in large bowl.
> 
> Mix: baking soda, flour, clove, ginger, cinnamon and salt in medium bowl. Add to large bowl.
> 
> Form into 1 inch balls and roll in granulated sugar.
> 
> Place on cookie sheets 2 inches apart and bake for 8 to 10 minutes in the preheated oven. 
> 
> Cool on a flat surface.


	13. Oh Hi, Markarth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri's annoyed. Markarth hasn't changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a week off away from family and friends to get some hardcore writing done because I'm behind. Of course, it HAD TO BE around THIS time. Enjoy my expedited writing posts! Next chapter will be soon so while you're hunkering down, I can distract you. Happy to do it.

I chew on a honey bar I found in my pack. It’s sweet and nutty until I think about Markarth again and the sweet becomes sickly, so I spit it out over the side of the carriage. I thought it would be easier to keep my mouth busy with Cicero across from me. Busy and full, maybe with seeds stuck between my teeth. Anything to stop myself if I sprouted courage to jump him. He’s here. Really here and I keep hiding in the memories of what we’ve already done. How it felt to first meet and that longing stare he gave when he recited his first impromptu poem. If I stay in my head the road lengthens, like escaping to the has-beens and never taking a step. Procrastinating but the wheels still turn. Perhaps the long ride west could lead to rest stops. Any excuse to avoid that city.

Cicero hums and taps his foot without a rhythm.

The offset beat rattles the line of thought and I avert my gaze from him.

It was about Markarth. Ugh. That Markarth. Has the brotherhood inched me this far into the crater of my youth? It’s filled with skeletons I don’t want to fall into but a job with Cicero, I could care more if it was the last place on Tamriel I wanted to go. Anywhere with him. There was a naive time I pined for Aerin to return as Cicero did when I stood amongst the skeletons. But these were not metaphorical bones nor the bones I laid myself. My family, that village—

Cicero rhymes, “A deer long stayed along the way and found its grave in the giant’s cave. Ho, ho, that’s a good one.” He flips through a journal, leather-bound and ironically deerskin.

—I should have leveled Markarth but at that point they would have seen it coming.

Cicero jots words down with a makeshift instrument, an antler wittled down, hollowed out, and stuffed with a piece of sharpened charcoal. Probably to save on ink and the many messes of carrying ink. He’s careful not to smear his words. As careful my father was with his instruments. Both men were handy with a blade. But Father didn’t hum.

I twist the shoulder straps of my pack and look onward, past Cicero who seated himself across from me and the chicken. On the off chance I find a good recipe at the inn, maybe I’ll invite Cicero to sit closer after we fill our bellies. We still haven’t had cheese pie, but a pot pie with gravy grows appealing. I fret my appetite will die at the sight of the walls. Closer the wheels turn over the rocky ground, taking us further into Forsworn territory, and eventually my stomping grounds.

Cicero’s second left foot catches the same off-beat pattern. Now both have their own diddy.

Serenity wafts over me when I focus on the opal of blue breaking through sleeves of several grays, light, dark, and broody. Taking a carriage to anywhere is my favorite time. Time to think with little effort to avoid tripping over stone. Wolves tend to steer away but in case they’re starving, I’m up high, and they’re dead from arrows before the carriageman gets his axe.

I breathe in and my slow exhale chokes in my gut when Cicero jumps up and wails.

“Forsworn! Forsworn—oh. No. Another deer.” He sits. “My mistake.”

I clutch the bag against my racing heartbeat.

The chicken snuggles into itself, plump and happy after its quick snack outside Sanctuary. Soon, my feathery fiend, it’ll come full circle. Although there are some in Skyrim who would break the cycle of nature. My father—

“Yon sunlight, how you fade!” Cicero calls out. “Cicero wishes you obeyed, to stay awhile, and lift the nightshade.”

I clear my throat.

Cicero says, “It’s beautiful out here, don’t you agree?”

Now his feet are in sync but his hands drum the bench.

“Yes,” I say.

I cross my leg over and look at the back of the carriageman’s head, then beyond him. We’re not even halfway, but we’ve made it over several hills.

“What do you love about it?” Cicero asks.

“The quiet,” I say.

“Oh yes, mistress! The quiet. The stillness. The silence our Dread Father adores so well. So well!”

I adjust the cricks in my neck.

“I’ve had years of quiet gifted to me by our sweet Night Mother.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It lets you think.”

He exclaims, “You understand me succinctly!”

His grin almost makes the twinge in my shoulder fade. I’m almost sure he’s just trying to find conversation because he’s nervous. He doesn’t need to be, not after—

“But of course Cicero probably had enough silence for all of Tamriel. Years to prepare and ponder and pray. It preyed upon me instead. Oh but I’m not complaining! It is as it should be, the Dread Father’s plans and all.”

I roll my shoulders. “Not complaining, huh?”

“Never, no! I’m grateful. So grateful of all gifts handed to his children.”

“I’m still trying to enjoy mine.”

“They are wonderful, aren’t they?” He sighs through a toothy smile.

It could be the longest trip I’ve had to make with the twisting roads and rocky terrain. My fingers rap my bouncing knees, as Cicero’s prattling mouth hasn’t stopped. Even the chicken’s eyes have glossed over and I swear it died staring at him. It’s so still, a statuette cursed by the incessant noise. I haven’t had one thought to myself and if I did it suffocated in verbage. I’d be less annoyed if any of it was about the contract, or bitching about Stormcloaks. Between the singy-songy monostiches he calls them, he insists that the only god worth a damn is who I’m working for.

“The Dread Father works through us in many, many ways. Mostly to murder or maim, murder mostly. And the Night Mother is our voice that calls out from the darkness, and gives us reason. But I haven’t heard her speak. She won’t speak to me, no. Not ever. Maybe. Someday. But it has been a long time. A long, long time.”

I rub my eyes and pick at the corners but I don’t expect any sleepy seeds. I hope the cart runs over a rock and I poke myself to distract me from the pain in my ears.

“I haven’t had a chance to talk to the others yet, but from what I can see, Ass-trid has taken it upon herself to play the Listener while the real one is still out there. Unaware. Unknowing. Alone.” He sighs longingly.

Insert 2000 years later but it’s only been a couple sun tilts based on the tree shadows. The chicken’s fallen over and I hear metal banging against something inside my pack, probably his forehead.

“If our brothers and sisters would just follow the tenets and believe in the old ways, our blessings would return! Everything would be back in its place and I’d have done my job as Keeper. But no. Ass-trid…”

When he goes into how she seems to not believe in anything except killing people, he veers off into how Anu came to be, and that our Dread Father was always around since before life was life. All I can think of, to shut anyone up that’s about to dive into major religion is to cut them off before their spirit vomits faith all over my perfectly tainted soul.

“I’m not much of a believer,” I say.

He doesn’t need to know what I really believe. After the carriageman’s piss break, which is usually the halfway mark but I think he held it to try and get me off this ride faster (bless him), I finally think I’ve shut him up.

Cicero beams, “That’s okay!”

He slaps my hand. I seize.

“You only just begun your journey and I’m so glad we can share these moments. Who better to tag along than me! Ho, ho! We’re going to have so much fun. And serving the Night Mother to boot. What a hoot!”

“Yes,” I say. “Hoot.”

Markarth would have been that memory you stick so far in the back of your head that even if it starts to itch you don’t want to scratch it because you’re afraid you’ll remember it again. But when you don’t want to remember you do anyway and it still itches.

Well, everywhere itches now as the city emerges and I debate flaying my skin to remove the problem.

“We’re here! We’re here! What a grand place.”

Or I’m looking at the solution all wrong. I scrunch my face as I scratch my forehead, my hairline, my hair. Can every strand piss me off enough to want me to shave my head?

“Igniri, have you ever seen such a grand—”

I bolt over the cart rail.

“Hey!” the carriageman shouts. “What are you…?”

I don’t care.

I’m halfway between the cart and city now. All I hear is my breath and my boots pounding against the earth, free as I am whenever I run. It’s me and Tamriel. No chicken, no humans. My words pour back into my head and I’m at peace again. Free to complain, rebel, joke about the ridiculousness of existence, starting with how I am running toward the hell I escaped.

I don’t care.

I don’t.

I—I thought the walls would be smaller when I grew up.

The stairs are easy to skip but as the walls grow into the sky a weight wears me down until I’m gasping. My muscles swell and ache and no part of me wants to stand. I reach for my backpack. I grasp nothing. I slap my back and the results are the same. I slump into the knowledge.

“Outrunning the storm?” Cicero’s voice carries up the steps.

The chicken walks ahead of me. It shakes a feeling off and its feathers puff. I sympathize or maybe it sympathizes with me. A backpack floats in front of me and I snatch it. Cicero stands beside me, in awe of Markarth.

“Or eager to find a dwarf?”

“They’re dead,” I answer.

Cicero replies singy-songy, “You never know.”

My skin burns but my hair still itches madly. I have to scratch.

“The contract,” I snap.

“Right,” he says. “Focus.”

Easy to say when he doesn’t know what’s behind the walls. The guards help me open the door. I’d like to say I was feigning weakness but something pushes me down and holds me there; I’m using everything left to push back.

Staircases tower us in the marketplace. Tiers of houses run through the city, curving as flags do in the wind. It’s as stoney as I remember. The cold smell is danker than the cold in Windhelm. Fewer lit fires and less smoke, but wet wood catches in a faint breeze beneath the stench of dead flesh still bleeding.

I freeze. The gates shut behind me. Cicero sees him but I notice another. The man I stare at doesn’t have the knife. The man I stare at doesn’t sneak up behind a woman and scream about the Forsworn. The man I see stares at the man Cicero attacks and yells, “Weylin!” Cicero snatches Weylin’s hand with the dagger, Cicero’s other hand to the elbow, and lunges the blade into his throat before he knows it. The prospective victim turns and screams. My hand grabs my bow when Weylin falls and Cicero yanks out the dagger, letting the blood spill to ensure his death. He breathlessly gulps for air. We wait. All that’s left before he dies is the shock on his face when Cicero drops the dagger in the blood, and the guards, slower than me, brandish their shiny weapons at the jester.

“Everyone stand back! The Markarth city guards have this all under control!”

Control. I ball my fists tighter than the white of Weylin’s skin.

The woman holds herself to keep in the sick and acknowledges the jester with thanks.

Cicero responds kindly when I return my sights to the meat vendor. He ignores me because he couldn’t have missed me and walks up to the woman.

“Margret…” he says.

I will not be ignored so I eliminate choice and jump in front of her before he can touch her.

“What the hell?” he says. “I wasn’t gonna—” He sees the details in my face and changes his tone. “Igniri.”

“Igniri!” I heard far away.

I had helped Mother in the kitchen and put away things in the larder before wiping my hands on my apron. When Father calls, you answer with vigor. I always answered with eccentricity unbecoming of ladies.

“Stables,” Mother noted.

“Yes, Da?” I beamed.

I had leapt out of the house and charged the horse and cart. It was lined with skins and stacked with meat.

He had the voice of mind-the-house-while-I’m-gone but I always hoped he’d take me along. Seven was old enough to hunt and cook. He knew that but had never taken me hunting. We always practiced in the back, targets hung up on the side of the cart. A bow and quiver, always, but in the kitchen I helped Mother skin the small animals. Today, Father was selling the big ones.

“Hop in,” he said.

I overshot my footing and skidded my shin against the mounting step. My glee bandaged the sting and I had started to bleed when Father waved goodbye to Mother. I had only been to the city once and I never remembered the first time. The only big things I saw in my youth were the old trees where the forest grew dense, and the boulders where I played Empresses with Aerin, who was still around then. Nothing prepared me for the mountain.

My happiest times, Markarth was under a different rule, but I hadn’t paid attention until Ulfric took it over a couple years later. I felt like a mouse in someone’s castle when we arrived. The guards wore furs and jewelry; they were kind when we passed through. Father parked the cart by a man’s marketstand. 

“Hey, Hogni,” Father said.

“Kuvlod,” the man came to the rider’s side. “I’m not expecting shipment yet.”

Father dropped down to shake arms. “Hircine blessed me I guess.”

“Right. Hircine.” Hogni pointed at me. “Is this the daughter you told me about?”

Father waved me down and I took his hand for help. They were always rough, thickened by decades of labor, calloused by use, but I liked them. When I had gotten my first callous I was so excited to show him. He wasn’t as visible in his pride as I was, but I knew.

“Igniri, this is Hogni Red-Arm.”

“Hello.” I didn’t extend my hand because his smelled metallic.

Hogni went around to the back of the cart. “Your wife approved her riding along?”

“No harm in learning the trade.”

My father was less worried than the meat man, but not without concern as I stood between them.

“What do you have for me, then?” Hogni said.

Father lifted the furs. Racks of deer, bear, and what looked like cow impressed Hogni so much he gave him a coin purse as big as my head once they inspected every cut. I did not get into it as they did but I watched, listened to them mumble trade talk to each other as they humped hundreds of pounds of meat onto a wagon.

“Igniri,” Father called. “Mind his stand while we take the last of this to storage.

Hogni assured me, “It’s just over on wetside, near the mines. We won’t be far.”

“Okay,” Because I couldn’t say no.

Father gave him way more food than Hogni could sell in a day. At my age then, I didn’t count, or care. I made eye contact with the jeweler nearby. She waved but then nearly jumped when something fell and my father cursed. I turned to see him pick up his product neatly wrapped in linen and tied, but the linen came loose, and I glimpsed the truth. Hogni saw me watch my father tuck the linen to hide the content, but he said nothing because I said nothing later until we sat for dinner at home.

I played with the diced meat among the vegetables in gravy.

“Who eats hands?” I asked.

Mother and Father stopped chewing.

I turned a carrot onto my spoon.

“It looked like a hand.”

And ate it.

“Hello,” I say.

Hogni quivers. That’s right, dickhole. It’s me. In his pathetic quibbling to say anything, he backs himself into his meat stand, and winces.

Margret whimpers behind me and somewhere Cicero chimes about the guards and conspicuity but I don’t care. Not when there’s another murderer we need to kill.

The little girl he met towers over him as my father did when he told me never to mention any of what I had seen to Aerin, to anyone. I didn’t know my father could be terrifying, or as tall, and his large, calloused hands became menacing, than compassionate. I imagined what they could do to me if I told anyone. Hogni turned my father into a monster in one wrong glimpse at the cart. I shouldn’t have looked. I shouldn’t have said anything. Be the good little girl and kept quiet. But I knew and after that I kept knowing more and soon Father couldn’t keep his secrets from me, because I was his little girl, and he was my monster father. So I guess that makes me his monster girl.

I was never one. Not after Markarth. That night I learned what a real monster was.

My feet take over. They storm toward Hogni. My fists ball themselves and before I feel myself going for a swing, pressure takes my wrist, and yanks me away.

“Focus, mistress!” Cicero drags me up the road. “The guards _have_ their murderer.” I tug and his grip strengthens. “Right?”

“He’s still alive.” I hate hearing it out loud.

“You can kill him later but now would be horrible timing.”

I jerk my arm away and I think he gives it up because it’s too easy. We stand apart on the bridge, over the stream that splits the walkways leading upward. At last, silence.

“Perhaps our friend we’re looking for wants to pay us for the meat man.”

My gloves scrunch.

“A double winny!”

My fists ache.

“And did you hear about the Forsworn? Stupid Forsworn.”

“Shut up!” I scream with a shrill from the heat in my gut I can’t stand anymore. “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”

Cicero pulls his lips in.

“Gods!” I hiss.

“Okay!” Cicero shows his palms. “I’ll go back and kill him then.”

“It’s not—ARGH! Are you serious!? Have you zero respect for think space!?”

“Think space?”

“Yes! _My_ thinking space! You just jibby-jib-jab the whole way here and I don’t get a second! You just fill silence with noise that I don’t give a shit about!”

Cicero ardently gasps. “I was speaking of our Dread Father!”

“_Your_ Dread Father. You talk to me like I’m one of the religious whackadoos that believes in that goat shit.”

His gasp squeaks into airless inhales. Hands flustered, eyes popping out of his face.

“It is not!”

“Oh yeah? What if The Void isn’t what you make it out to be? What if it’s nothing like everyone else thinks it is.”

“Of course it is nothing because it’s The Void!”

“Do you think the Dread Father’s gonna tolerate you? Look at you.”

Cicero’s eyes shine. “What about me!?” He spreads his legs to hold him steady and looks at his curled boots.

“The Void isn’t fitting for a loud, flamboyant prancer. Let me just rip that bandage off right now. The Dread Father doesn’t seem like the nicest guy to just take you in and let you continue to fill his void with your jib-jab, jib-jabber.”

His hand moves carefully over his dagger tucked in its sheath. I don’t need my bow to kill him, the words made the wounds. I just need him in strangling distance to finish my purgative release. I’m shaking, waiting for him to lunge. I resist the fire inside but it builds, that mess in my stomach churns and spits. Even my eyeballs are hot. Cicero grips the handle.

A deep voice breaks through. “Thought I heard you lambchops grousing.”

Cicero relaxes and looks toward the marketplace. I hesitantly copy. Arnbjorn walks up to us, bare feet muddy from the trek. Some of the dirt had splattered his clothes which means he must have ran.

“Brother!” Cicero beams, arms open. “So nice of you to join us! Please! The more the merrier!”

I thought this was a lone wolf operation, or maybe I wished it to be. Or it is, but someone changed her mind.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“I got to thinking…see I used to be in the Companions, and they travelled in packs. It helped bring down the big animals. And since this is your first big beast, I thought you could use some…guidance.”

Is that what they call spying in the Dark Brotherhood?

“You’re Astrid’s eyes when I fuck up.”

“My money’s on you being flayed but that’s just cuz I’m hungry.”

Hogni’s meat stand rests at the bottom of the path as the guards carry the body away. The same wagon my father stuffed is next to the boxes and barrels of bare flesh and salt. The Silver-Blood Inn stands beside it. Hogni’s probably there to settle his nerves.

“Terrific,” I say.

I eyeball Cicero and he meets my eyes. We lock on and the heat returns, this time in my head, where all sorts of new words want to spring out.

“Let’s go, lard buckets, before the Hag’s Cure closes. I hear that’s where your contact hangs out sometimes.”

Arnbjorn takes lead up the walkway, forcing Cicero and I to leave the bridge.

“You just knew that?” I say.

“Unlike you idiots, I checked the inn first and asked around.”

Cicero scowls. “We were…”

“I saw. And I don’t care. But Astrid wants what’s best for the _family_. Kill each other afterwards, if you want. I have to see what the fresh meat can bring to the table since the chicken’s apparently off the menu.”

Damn. He _is_ hungry.

My first impression left little to be impressed about. A lunatic with a grudge against poultry walking around with a jester. I don’t blame Aerin for being suspicious, cautious, and whatever else she’s feeling. I did notice the loss of intimidation, though. Arnbjorn could fill the tunnels in the sanctuary. But out here, he’s just as small as me. Markarth, the great equalizer. It’s not so bad now. And the waterfall is pleasant, emitting a cool mist as we cross another bridge to what looks like someone’s home chiseled in the rock. A grand door marking The Hag’s Cure, once dwarven residence, now controlled by a tattooed witch who looks hundreds of years old. Or she’s twenty and drank the wrong potion. We take the stairs down to the main store but the fumes are worse by the entrance. Constrained by the narrow space and as I learn here, heat rises, and warm brews and harsh chemical reactions nauseate me. Cicero hops down and browses the wares while Arnbjorn greets the old woman, and I find Muiri sweeping a corner. Eventually Cicero joins my side and I step away to give myself space, since thinking space is also off with the chicken. Where is she, anyway?

Muiri opens up after I introduce myself. Cicero takes her hand and kisses it if not to annoy me further. Her lover Alain Dufont is a bandit leader. She met him after wallowing her sorrows in Windhelm, a popular place for sorrow wallowing. Alain isn’t Hogni, but if I can’t kill the noise that is Cicero, I can kill a man who’s broken a heart. But when I accept the contract, and the Lotus Extract, I think of the long talks in the tavern and how they didn’t bother me then. And the ride from the farm didn’t bother me either. Had I been too smitten to see the truth like Muiri was, so close to the intoxication of lovefall that I folded my third eye? Perhaps all sight in the matter. If I have lost simple perception, it’s back with vengeance for being naive, though I don’t see myself asking someone else to do the deed. If it’s personal, I should own it through every action and consequence.

“It’ll be done,” I say.

All of us turn to go.

“Wait,” she says.

Oh no, I think.

“I’ll pay you more…if you kill someone else.”

And I’ll bite.

“Who?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose when I closed the door to the shop. The crashing waterfall doesn’t muffle Cicero’s inquiry.

“It’s nothing. Let’s just focus on Alain. Who’s familiar with ruin diving?”

Cicero gleams and finger waves. Arnbjorn stares at me as if I’m going to use my voice to push him over the edge.

“Arnie?” I say.

“Just point at the map and we’ll go,” he says.

Cicero belts out, “Off again into the wild snow yonder!”

“Oh my gods!” I stomp ahead of them before the inner fire sets in and Markarth becomes the rubble I want it to be, to cook Hogni, and return the silence at last.

A double winny as the crimson songbird calls it.

* * *

From the Recipe Box belonging to <strike>Sigyn Sunbane of Blodblomyr</strike> the Butcher of Blodblomyr

**Songbird Bars**

Yields: 15 dainty finger width slices

Tools: furnace, a pan or mold to withstand heat and hold about a pound, spoon, large bowl, knife, hammer (yes)

Ingredients:

Seeds and nuts gathered along travels (not counting your companions). At least 5 cupped hands (cups) worth.

2 cupped hands of nuts, varied  
3 cups of seeds, varied  
2 cups rolled oats  
1 handful of dried raisins or currants  
4 eggs (if you have a chicken, squeeze em out of her—it)  
1 thumb of salt  
2 thumbs of apple cider vinegar

Think about your favorite bird. Combine everything into large bowl. Mix until incorporated evenly. Does your bird tweet? Do they perhaps tweet a little too much? Dump that mix into a pan that will give it shape. Maybe that bird sings too. Sings when you’re trying to think. With a spoon SMASH THE MIXTURE DOWN FLAT. SMASH SMASH SMASH UNTIL IT’S TOO DENSE TO MOVE. Smack it for good measure. Ask a baker to borrow their oven. Should be at least 375 degrees. So they’ll have finished their morning goods already. Tip the baker if they put it in for you and wait around for less than an hour, until it’s goldening on the outside, and when you tap the loaf, it sounds hollow, like bird bones. And bird brains. Brains splattered all over the wall because it wouldn’t shut up. Remove the loaf. Let cool in the pan or mold. Might take another hour. Could help baker mill flour while you wait; they’d appreciate it.   
Turn pan over because the loaf is stuck and won’t come out. If it does come out, you win. If it doesn’t, grab a hammer (ask Arnie for assistance), and beat the pan until the loaf moves. It’ll be enough to pull the rest of the way out. Slice and enjoy with cheese, meat, honey, or whatever you want. Don’t give any to your songbird except crumbs. Noisy half-wits.

Easy to wrap in cloth and store for later. 


	14. In Fact, It's a Gas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri exposes her underbelly and Arnbjorn exposes...himself. Cicero deals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter split due to length. I delighted in writing out Igniri's brief hyperventilation without describing it. When you read, I hope you feel it as I did when I read it out loud. I didn't think Arnbjorn was going to get much face time, however I'm liking this development among the characters. It'll be interesting when I write the canon parts from A Cure for Madness.

Do I have to describe the pain again? It’s searing and itches and there’s nowhere to scratch. It urges me to hit something—anything and I can’t find what it is I really want to hit. I storm through Falkreath Sanctuary. I smell like smoke and I feel like a cooked pig swaddled in another’s thick, sweaty skin. The tingle in the back of my head doesn’t go away and now it’s telling me to take control. I could clean, or cook, or throw furniture around the room. I want to rip off my clothes and stand screaming under the waterfall. Or shove my hands in boiling water to replace the anguish with what’s tangible.

The brotherhood has probably confirmed I’m the crazy one. They have no evidence to be wrong. Neither do I. Not after what happened in Raldbthar.

I stop just after leaving the main chamber, and grab at the pounding in my head. I stamp the floor, not sure what I can do with this mania. Someone’s following me because I feel the unease shoot up my spine. I take off for the kitchen. Mother let me stir the pot when I came home sobbing one time. A girl teased me and had said that Seben would never like me because Anu burnt me coming out of Mother’s oven.

I stir the pot. There’re carrots and potatoes, some leeks, and the broth’s surface covered in a chopped, leafy herb. A single chuckle escapes between holding my tears and rage.

“Sister.” A woman’s voice bears careful weight to not startle me and Gabriella emerges from my left. “Here we are again.”

She slinks one of the pot hooks over. It clinks to another.

“Here we are,” I say.

She does it again. “I know this is sort of a bad time and we haven’t gotten to know each other yet, but as long as you don’t poison my soup, I think we’ll be good.”

“I just needed to—”

“—make your hands busy.”

I tilt a sideways glance. She offers me a wistful smile and I mirror it.

“Oh,” she pats my back, “and Veezara couldn’t delay her anymore so she’s coming-right-now-okay-bye!”

Holding onto an elongated vowel, she carries the “e” upstairs.

Enter Aerin. Shoulder right.

“What? Happened?”

My grip tenses on the spoon.

I inhale.

Charred rat and fire traps. Someone had busted the pipes for two reasons and the first one stunk. No one ever talks about the dramatic change in temperature entering ruins. I had acclimated to the snowfall, consistent weather of Skyrim, but walk into Raldbthar and it’s a blacksmith’s workshop confined to eons of continuous steam-powered engineering. When the doors close, it’s a sauna built on a hot spring. I could have been overreacting because after my short fuse lit from Cicero’s vocal assaults—songs and chiming from Markarth to the mountains near Windhelm—I was fuming. If a snowflake fell near it evaporated before it touched me. We tied our horses out of sight when Arnbjorn suggested the quiet approach when he sniffed out the bandits. Sniff, I said. I knew he was something else. Killing the bandits outside and watching their bodies roll down the stairs eased my suffering, being on edge with Arnie, and constantly bickering with Cicero to the point that once we got inside, the arguments escalated with the temperature. We passed the skewered rat between breaks in the fire. I had shoved Cicero through before the flames shot across again. That’s when he asked about the chicken.

It was an innocent question and I had no clue how to answer because I didn’t know where the chicken was, but somehow all my blood vessels constricted so tight I had no way to breathe out the anger that I just…let the words flow at full volume.

Cicero broke the silence every step and not once considered I may have needed it to decompress. My mind is where I go. I don’t talk because people don’t listen. And when Cicero talks, it feels like I’m the only one listening. These giant ears hear everything he does—even his arrhythmic heartbeat. The way the belt shifts on his waist when he walks, when his gloves scrunch as he makes an angry fist at me and thinks insulting my mother will make me cry (cry laughing, perhaps). If he would shut up for one second, I’d be able to hear a mud crab blink, and they don’t have eyelids! What were we fighting about?

“Oh yeah!” I shout. “Right! Like it only takes five tenets to live peacefully with a bunch of cutthroats who have already dismissed society’s laws!”

Cicero retaliates, “It’s better than no tenets at all!”

I stop mid-stride and square off. “The entire faith behind Sithis being part of this cult is contradictory to what he is, which is NOTHING! The tenets are a joke! Respect the Mother or Wrath of Sithis. If I hurt you—Wrath of Sithis. Betray you—Wrath of Sithis, Steal from you—Wrath, Kill you—Wrath.”

Cicero claps excitedly, “The heretic is learning. Praise the Night Mother! You know the Brotherhood well, you do!”

I grind my molars.

Arnbjorn hisses, “I thought we were sneaking in!”

We walk through a golden gate I more likely unlocked and pushed aside. I did notice the three bandits sitting around the fire with ballistas conveniently aimed at them from the upper level, though.

“We are!” I snap. “I can be yelling at the top of my lungs,” I shove my hand toward a man that matches Alain’s description, “and these nincompoops couldn’t find me with a spell and a war hound!”

Alain stomps through the dwarven oil leaked on the ground, splishing it up his pants. “What the fuck is this? Who the fuck are you?”

“Are you Alain Dufont?” I inquire with peaceful diplomacy.

“What? Why?”

I drop down and he stops.

“Where’d you go!?”

I flick my gaze upward. I pull an arrow and hit the catalyst above the spilled oil. Alain and his gang catch fire when the jar breaks. I stand. Alain’s still screaming so I shoot him in the face.

“Welcome to my life!” I stand in a T.

Alain falls back with the arrow through his gaping mouth. I hope Cicero takes the hint. I’ve lived a life of solitude and invisibility. To take away the part that’s been me all these years would send anyone into a dwarven ruin screaming without a care if that was the actual Alain Dufont or not. I figured if Cicero wouldn’t let me think I’d just go in arrows flying and who ever I hit would be Alain Dufont. But it was just these three and I’m glad I didn’t have to waste any more arrows on account of the noise.

“Sithis doesn’t want any part of this,” I say. “He wants oblivion. It makes no sense to have oblivion by creating the Brotherhood.”

Cicero shouts, “It makes sense to me!”

I huff. “Oh we’re all feeling much better now!”

Before Alain’s personals burn completely, I walk through to get whatever I can.

Arnbjorn shouts, “Wait!”

The fire’s hotter than I’m used to, could be the oil, but I’m unburned, and I collect a warhammer I hand to Arnie when we meet back. A gate opens behind me and boots beat the ground.

Before Arnbjorn yells “Look out!” he charges past and shoves me aside. He swings his hammer in a long arc and the momentum upper cuts a man in the jaw. It crunches. Neck snaps. He flies back, hits his back in a pipe; he’s dead face down. Blood pools out of his mouth.

Arnbjorn looks back. “Damn, flank. I didn’t know you were fireproof.”

The yellow tips of flame lick at my skins as they dwindle into their blue layer and extinguish when I step off the oil residue.

“I’m not,” I say.

Cicero says, “You walked through fire and didn’t say ‘ow.’”

“Fine.”

Arnbjorn sniffs.“More bandits?” I ask.

He hovers over the bludgeoned dead guy.

“Something else,” he says.

Ruins are usually infested with giant bugs or mutated elves. I never stayed in one for long because of one that time I almost drowned and dwarven hydro-engineering and a daedra’s pity saved me. I shrug, then I hear the hissing. Impact shook the pipe loose. Its waterlike contents drip on the body’s heavy armor and the metal begins to smoke Cicero’s hair color.

“Just don’t touch it,” I warn.

Arnbjorn scratches his head. “We should report back to Muiri.”

We head out and I ignore Cicero giving me looks the whole way back. My skin bristles when we pull hard on the door and the entrance gulps in the cold air. Snow flurries across the platforms and staircases down to the line of trees. Our horses should still be just down the slope, though I doubt that now.

He hasn’t stopped staring. I huff.

“What?” And puff.

Cicero answers, “I heard what she said about the family in Windhelm. It’s just northeast of here.”

I stare into the snowy vista and Stormcloaks stare back. Cicero and Arnbjorn haven’t noticed or don’t care.

“We can’t go,” I say.

“I’m a sucker for bonuses.”

“Well,” I clench my teeth, “you’ll get your round two, then, won’t you?” I elbow him in the side.

Arnbjorn peeks over me. I want to slink down and pull myself away but he already does it for me. “Stand back, tidbits.”

I’m okay hiding behind the centurion of muscle.

“Butcher of Blodblomyr?” Their squad leader calls out.

“Arnbjorn of This-Hammers-New-Home-Is-Your-Ass.”

Cicero chimes in, “You fellows look lost. Are you from Windhelm?”

“Get lost.”

“Ah breezy, chilly Windhelm. There must be so much coin to be made in good ol’ Wind—”

“We’re from Markarth, clown, now shut your trap!”

“And why would you come all this way for us?”

He shouts. “You think you can waltz in our cities, butcher!? You didn’t think we’d find out!?”

Cicero mutters, “Ooh. Are we name-calling? I want to be the Wraith of Whiterun.”

“We know your kind, merry man. You defy our laws, disrespect our traditions, and then, with no warning, stab us in the back after we show you hospitality!”

“Which hospitality was it you gave my mistress?”

“The kind she deserved!”

The leader pulls his sword but Cicero remains still, daggers sheathed, grin bearing mischief. He steps forward.

“At last. I thought you were trying to talk me to death!” He cackles.

Wraith of Whiterun, the man who flew through the city and racked up a body count of a dozen stands before similar numbers which is why I’m no longer worried about the snipers in the tree line. In the time he’s interrogated them, threatened, and taunted, my bow’s been out, arrow notched, and voice ready to project me into the fray, or blow every one of them away. I lick my canine and big my tongue in the point. My eyes lock on the sniper to my left, one hundred paces outward. Adrenaline sharpens the target; his eyes white and arrogant. Cicero gave me more time than I needed to analyze the field. Arnbjorn can smell, I can hear, and Cicero can speak until the mammoths stroll home.

I refuse to blink.

I should’ve.

When Arnbjorn howls it shakes me into a panic. I should have run. Frozen feet execute me incapable. Tautlimbs but I tremble. Nostrils flare and eyes bulge. I can’t stop shaking. The pain in my chest pounds so hard I think I’ll burst. Arnbjorn falls forward. His leathers tear, his back pops and mutates. His hair thickens to silver fur. His feet stretch, like listening to joints pull from sockets as fat and muscles and bone swell and distort and burst.

Weakness erodes me and I loose the arrow. It falls somewhere off my unbreakable gape. He roars. My chest clamps and I use my gasp to free a primal, terrified shriek. I jump back to hide but I miss the space and hit the door. Arnbjorn ignores me and vaults off the platform, down into the Stormcloaks. Cicero runs to the edge, then turns back.

Tears fall as I try to pry open the door. I know I slammed it shut with my head because it throbs. My hands are wet and clammy and can’t grip. I scream.

“Mistress!”

Have to hide. Anywhere. Lock the doors and I’ll be safe. Break the locks, break the spirit.

He won’t hunt me.

He won’t hunt me down.

Dad won’t hunt me down.

A hand touches me.

I screech, swat away, and knuckles hit cheekbone. I look. Cicero’s mouth drops open. I sob, feeling swollen, hot, and small. My fingers slip along the metal. The door once easy to push and pull now I’ve lost sense of it. Cicero offers and yanks—it opens with enough space to get me inside. I barge in sideways and almost slam the door on him but he slips through as a curtain in the breeze of an open window.

“Close it close it close it!”

“But Arnbjorn needs our help,” Cicero says.

“GET OUT!” I bawl.

“He’s won’t hurt you!”

“You don’t know him!”

“You’re right!” He pulls a second dagger out. “But you know me.”

I clutch where my heart last beat before it heaved itself into my brain. The throbbing’s getting worse. And hotter. I must be red. I used to have sleeveless gloves to tell. I pull one off and examine what I feared was happening. Cicero gasps.

“You know magic, right?” Cicero waves a dagger at my hand. “Y-you’re a mage.”

I frantically shake my head.

“Shit,” he says. He spins out the door.

“No!” I reach for him, but snatch my hand back as if hiding it will solve it all.

I hear him sing “be baaack” as he runs off, leaps over the edge, and vanishes, abandoning me to the sight of my fingers: rosy tips and an orange glow, but I’m not holding a candle in a glass. It’s the same way it happened twenty-five years ago. A dash of hate, a stream of adrenaline, and a bucket of fear. Mix into one Dunmer vessel and shake. I’ve never known the cure or how to stop it, but if I don’t calm down, if I don’t deescalate this, I will ignite, and I have not yet begun to know if I want to kill Cicero. Others be damned, however I need that choice, or I am not me, but a menace.


	15. It's A Gas, Gas, Gas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri and Cicero huff nitrous oxide and almost kill each other. Arnbjorn puts up with them until he gets hit with something else. Cicero confesses his past.
> 
> Songs: "Heart of Light" by Liquid Cinema; "Jumpin' Jack Flash" by The Rolling Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a goof. I've rewritten this chapter now that I've gotten my mojo back. Enjoy the roller coaster.

I don’t know how long Aerin’s been staring at me, but if she wasn’t so wound up trying to hold her chest with her arms tight around her breasts, I’d say she wants to shove me into the cooking spit. I had left her hanging on my held breath; I didn’t forget to answer, I just couldn’t. How much of it could be explained and how much would be accepted? It wasn’t a botched contract but the means to the goal could have gone better.

“I saved your husband,” I say.

On coincidental cue, Arnbjorn walks in and his wife only side-glances him. I know she doesn’t see him, merely knows he’s there.

“Evidently,” she says. “How?”

Arnie interjects, “Astrid, there’s not much to tell. It was her first so just leave it be.”

Aerin spins. “A ruin blew up, _husband_! That news is grassfire. Remember Winterhold? And none of you returned until days later. No word that any of you were alive! That you—” she resists caressing his face in front of me, “—were alive.”

“I was…”

He folds his arms.

“Licking his wounds,” I say simply.

Arnbjorn’s blinks flutter. “Yeah. Potions weren’t cutting it.”

“Really,” Aerin glares at me.

“Yeah,” I say.

Arnbjorn joins, “If Cicero ever gets back, you can ask him about it.”

“I did,” she says.

I feel a drain take away the hot air in my boots, and my face. When I think of someone storming off, I don’t think of them returning here, but it makes sense. His mother is here.

“When?” I ask.

“A few hours ago. He practically threw himself onto the Night Mother and hasn’t stopped cleaning up her…area.”

“What did he say?”

“He hasn’t given me much for someone who doesn’t shut up, so I want to know from you. _Now_.”

Arnie looks at me then his wife.

She’ll have to nail her head on a swivel to keep up.

“We killed the target,” he states.

“Two targets,” I correct.

Arnbjorn nods. “Got a bonus for it.”

“Cooked a cannibal,” I say.

“Wasted some Stormcloaks,” he says.

“Almost wasted Cicero.”

“But we didn’t,” he points.

“No we didn’t.” I frown.

“Blew up instead.” He looks worried.

“I got better.” I raise my eyebrows high.

“The gases though.”

I enunciate. “We got better!”

Aerin waves frantically for us to stop. “What do you mean _blew up_?”

Arnbjorn takes it. “More like hahhh-BOOM, then puwchhh…and after that I wasn’t conscious.”

Aerin’s bulging eyes could compete with Hogni’s when I impaled him on the spit with the skeever.

Wide walls narrow quickly when fighting short gulps of humid air. Cicero breaks through the door, his silhouette a small thing in the pillar of cold white space.

He calls to me that it’s safe but then _it_ snarls.

Cicero faces outside. “Cicero had kindly suggested you change back. When were you going to do so?”

It growls. “When you don’t say it because I don’t answer to you.” He sounds far, past the bottom steps.

“You know why I did.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“She’s orange!”

I can’t take it. With Cicero between me and the werewolf, I have regained some cognition. I slip to the back, down the hall, and when Cicero notices he calls my name, confused once, insistent twice. Normally, I’d love hearing him say it, but the buzzing makes the inaudible unbearable, and I definitely don’t hear Cicero coming up behind me when I lock the gate inches from his reach.

“Don’t be silly now,” he says.

He grips the bars and pulls. I hold tight and shove picks into the keyhole, breaking them off as I go. If he gets near me I’ll hurt him. That might mean more than what is clear. Cicero shakes the bars and I see a hint of the man the Whiterun guards met. Maybe pushing him away is best. Push away everyone to keep me safe. But it’s not the anger that frightens me, it’s the kindness. We were mad at each other and now is he over it so quickly? Shall I test this, with the last bit of me holding on?

“Take a hint!” I yell and slap the bars.

He snatches my wrist—I didn’t see him move. “All of us face our fears at some point.”

No buzzing could mute that.

A cylinder shifts nearby in intervals; it must be pushing the steam through, like a water pump but self-sufficient, and oversized like the rest of the ruins. Cavernous rooms of carved stone hold onto the centuries since they’ve been built, but the abandonment lies in heaps of broken pieces while its automatons maintain that which is already lost. Old gold and gray with the magical green fires clasped in bars. I hadn’t been the only one who lived in a cage. What did the Dwemer fear if all their life they built these prisons for themselves but sought the power of gods?

Firelight behind Cicero dims his face and casts a rim shine, but I still see that sparkle in the glass of his eyes. What does Cicero fear?

The werewolf howls. I shrug into my shoulders and squeeze my eyes shut for what good it does. I focus on the steam moving through the pipes, and the condensation dripping, hissing. The studs on my gloves clink against the gate. Cicero hasn’t let go, a grip strong enough to break bone, fast enough to catch me, faster to stab a face with a spoon. The burning hums forsake me to the beastly sounds breaking through the door. Cicero turns to yell at him but the human Arnbjorn stands tall, carrying a man over his shoulder. Hogni Red-Arm. He throws him down the hall and it rolls to s short stop before the fire trap. Arnbjorn had wiped his mouth of blood now smeared across his jaw. His hair’s matted down and saturated. With some werewolf magic his clothes are intact. Cicero’s hand slides into mine and to calm the trembling, but he only pulls away to leave me behind the bars.

I clench my teeth. Part of me needs to chew on something.

“What do you have there?” Cicero asks, half-mocking.

“Found him waiting down the hill by a handcart.”

Cicero crouches to inspect the body.

“One of the guards had this.” Arnbjorn hands him a note.

He reads it and doesn’t look back at me. He squats there, still as stone, until the knife comes out, and his arm flurries up and down until blood dances in the air, and Arnbjorn lets out a short laugh.

“I was gonna let the fresh meat have him, but…” Arnbjorn looks over and my pulse quickens. “Hey. She looks gray to me.”

Cicero wipes the blade on the body’s shirt before putting it back in his belt. He takes his time standing, a tree pacing its growth, before he says I should see this closer. I want to, but I haven’t unlocked eyes with Arnbjorn. If all of us are going back to the sanctuary alive, I need to pretend he’s a man, and he’s in control, and he follows the stupid tenets. Do no harm to a sister and I’ll do harm to, well, everything.

I go to unlock the gate except I had done such a great job keeping Cicero out that I might have screwed myself.

“Um,” I start.

“You lambchops are feeble little things.”

Arnbjorn jumps through the fire and hops down the broken gate that’s become a ledge. My heart shoots itself to the moons. I catch myself and shake off the room swaying in twos. He stops. He must’ve realized he has to take it slow.

“The clown wasn’t kidding.” He moves forward, down the slope, then by the cylindrical piston. “Easy, sister. No need bringing the whole place down.” He puts his palms up, clawless. “Maybe after you get paid, hm?”

He doesn’t know it’s not about the money.

“Stand back,” he says and readies his weapon.

He frees me with one hammer blow. I’m strides away from him and my skin still prickles. The gate swings on broken hinges before dropping flat to the ground, leaving me open, and small as a mouse.

“I like who I am,” he says. “You’re just gonna have to get used to it.”

I don’t tell him why I never will.

“Igniri,” Cicero croons. “Come see.”

Arnbjorn moves aside and offers me the entire hallway to meet Cicero at the body, probably less because Cicero told him of my issue, moreso of what I did to him last time he was in my way. I read the shocked, vacant face of Hogni Red-Arm first. Freshly killed thanks to the brotherhood for not thinking twice like I did. It is the best gift I don’t ever want to tell the reason, but I am grateful.

The stained note is creased in thirds, the last fold perpendicular to the others. Cicero hands it to me and it reads how treachery usually writes. I crumple the note and throw it in the fire, then ask for assistance.

Cicero, Arnbjorn, and I watch Hogni cook in the fire trap. His mouth agape and skewered through with the metal rod broken through his ass. A feat I’m proud of, though I did not know it’d take some hammering to get it through the other side. Why couldn’t humans be simple on the inside, like pudding?

“Is that what we smell like?” Cicero asks and waves his hand by his nose.

It’s heavily sweet pork and earthy pine imbued with a rich, metallic aroma from the blood. I won’t be getting the stench out of my nose for a day.

“No,” I say, “just him.”

“Gods, what did he eat?”

He would have more questions than answers if I tell him. It’s easier to know him as just a weasel trying to stay in business. Now that my father’s gone he’s had to hunt for himself. This was one way, and smart if you need a lot of bodies. A twofer, since he was after me, either to exact his own revenge, or in his sick and more likely way, desired to know my flavor.

A fitting end. If only all my enemies met this fate. Hogni’s flesh crisping under direct heat melts the stiffness in my shoulders so well I could have been at the hot springs, though it’s not the temperature waning the stress, but one less person to remind me of my parents, and one less knife in my back. He transitions to a dark, charred carcass with his eyelids burnt off, and eyeballs split. Parts have swollen and bubbled where the last threads of cloth burnt away, leaving the leather and metal. The orange glow is no more in me than in Hogni and I’m back to my Dunmer self. Even Cicero’s gone quiet enough for me to forget I’m angry. I’ve never met someone who can churn my emotional kettle and spill the soup. It’s my own damned fault for keeping everyone a giant’s stride away but wanting this one to be more. My kettle’s been dry and needing something fresh. And what have I wanted all this time, since the night the guild made me their mistress?

My stomach bloats and seeps a warm nausea in my head I recognize as warning signs. I should be sickened. I impaled a man Cicero perforated, which accelerated the cooking from all the blood loss. I should be but it’s not that kind of nausea. My innards protest, swelling into a full grumble that could be heard throughout the ruins.

“Damn, goatshank, you’re speaking my language!”

I forgot I’m standing next to Arnie when he slaps me on the back and I go rigid before all I see is orange and feel the hot flame engulf me and detonate.

I didn’t want to tell Cicero this way. I didn’t think it’d be possible to do again so I ignored it. Whiterun learned I’m Dragonborn and I watched the same colors cast into me, the same remnant glow in my hands. It’s not my vehement desire for revenge that day that turned me into a monster. They nurtured me into it, bred from a village that sought violence. They found it. The little girl who never fit in no matter how Nord I was raised, I’d never be part of them. I’d never be a part of…that. But for years I didn’t see anything wrong. I saw my father’s work, my mother’s chores, and a village that helped each other. There was nothing wrong until I saw Seben crying. No one in the village cries, so I thought I was the only one who did. I had leaned on my house, watching him pull grass by the stream, hugging his knees. Well out of human earshot, I heard every word. “I miss Mother,” he had said over and over. I had listened so hard to his whispers in his solitude that I clamped my hands from the shocking pain of my mother yelling for me. Seben twisted around and saw me run inside.

Seben helped me understand what I lacked when my parents died. While he yearned for his mother, I was relieved, but without a mother to miss, I never had a mother to begin with. Not a mother that Seben had. Not one worth crying over.

I regain consciousness but I don’t get up. I hide my face in the rubble that way I don’t see the ashes of those I let near. Cicero and Arnbjorn have to be dead, but if that is the case, so should I. The ruins would be, well, ruined by now. I open an eye.

Raldbthar runs deep, far beneath the bandit’s territory. I gathered that when I stared up at a mountain of dwarven architecture. Faded gold in blankets of lasting snow. There was a lift where we tied the horses (I assume are dead now) so that means there’s another way out. A mound of debris blocks me from the main entrance. Arnbjorn’s body lies beneath the larger pipes along the wall; I don’t see Cicero. He was standing beside me, my right side, so he should’ve been blown apart through the traps. My insides sink. I want to melt into the rock and let the crumbling ruins take me.

Fingers slip down my neck and a hand slips around my wrist. A relieved sigh drifts through my messed hair strands. I try to talk but I only moan.

“Mistress.”

Renewed vigor flows into me and I find an urge to stand; Cicero takes me to my feet slowly. Blood rushes back and I’m light-headed but not for long. I use him as a crutch until they weariness fades.

“So, on your birthday…no surprise party?”

I cough.

“Not with werewolves,” I say, then clear my throat.

Something’s tickling my throat and it’s not the dust.

“Check Arnie for me?”

Cicero goes. “With your good fortune, he’s very much alive.”

Apart from the grime of battle and surviving an explosion, Cicero only has a minor limp, which he walks off as he gets to Arnbjorn. Even his hat’s still on, a distinguishing feature that he’d be left naked had I blown it off. I’m sure it was but he had put it back on before attending to me. Priorities. I grab my side—the bag’s intact, as well as my bow and quiver. I don’t think it distinguishes me but I need it or else I’m truly alone.

Cicero tsks. I’m skeptical the werewolf is alive until Cicero slaps him awake.

“Upsy daisy, Arnie lazy!”

“I will kill you,” Arnbjorn groans and clenches his head.

His nose bleeds and his hair’s a nest for pebbles. Seems we can all come out of this pretty if we find the exit.

“Let’s go,” I say.

“Get off me, little man.” Arnbjorn walks on. “I’ve never tried clown but I hear they taste funny.”

Cicero follows. He must have recited it because he slaps his hands over his mouth and bursts with giggles.

Tell me if you’ve heard this one: a clown, a werewolf, and a bomb walk into a bar. They didn’t get far because the werewolf told the clown a joke and the bomb went off. Yeah, I’ll keep that one in my head. Not that I’m unhappy they’re alive. I don’t have to answer to Ass Terd, as Cicero enunciates, but it’d be a lot easier to concentrate traversing the ruins if those two didn’t bond.

“Hey!” Arnbjorn shouts at me.

I keep walking. I’ll sneak up on anything moving before he can sniff them out.

“Stay close.”

“Fuck you,” I say.

He hasn’t even apologized for being an idiot. Cicero asked him to transform back. He saw how I reacted. He doesn’t give a shit so I’m not going to either.

“I mean it! Something doesn’t smell right.”

He’s right. As I walk through the room with Alain Dupont, certain other parts of the ruins have caught fire—small patches left over from my outburst. How Cicero and Arnbjorn aren’t ash goes beyond natural. I stop at the man who almost had the jump on me. He’s cooked. I flash-roasted him and the pipe, where the liquid was dripping.

“What you smell is probably what was in this pipe.”

I crouch to inspect it further but it’s empty; no good will come sticking around, so I keep going.

“Why are you guys not dead?”

“Maybe we’re special, trailbait.”

“Or maybe…” I turn and stare down Cicero. “…one of you found something special in my bag.”

“Cicero told you the truth!” the jester squeals. “I take great offense at such an accusation.”

“I’m offended that you think I’m gonna fall for that bullshit when these bodies weren’t in the impact area.” 

Arnbjorn scoffs. “It wasn’t even that big of an explosion. You had a hissy fit at most.”

My face flushes. “Excuse me?”

“I call it like I feel it. I’ve been blown up before and that, whatever you did, wasn’t all bad.”

I look to Cicero.

“He’s…right.” Cicero slouches. “But it did hurt. A lot. Cicero’s never been thrown that far by a girl before. It was quite thrilling!”

My gloves scrunch tightly in my fists. I grab my bow then I turn to Arnbjorn, who’s standing with his arms crossed, waiting for me to hit him. A wave of anger relapses and the blood in my cheeks give and pool somewhere in my head. An urge takes over. It fills in my chest and rises until I can’t help it.

I break out in laughter.

I’m supposed to be enraged but the feeling isn’t coming. I’m weakened as I’d feel by the third tankard. Loose, but not sick, and without care. Consequences out the window, I could say anything and it wouldn’t matter. I could even tell my joke!

“A clown--” but I can’t finish when another fit overtakes me. My gut is sore I have to hold it.

Soon, Cicero’s with me, doing the same, and Arnbjorn looks around like something’s in the air. Ha! See what I did there? I slap my knees.

“Don’t make me carry you guys out,” Arnie warns.

I collapse in stitches.

I should care that my explosive personality shook the foundations and the ruins are probably coming down any minute. Debris crumbles, threatening our doom, and I can’t straighten up after folding over from Arnie’s comedy show. I’m cured! Werewolves aren’t scary! They’re downright hilarious!

“Let’s go!” he growls.

I mimic his muscular physique and bloat myself up as I march through the next room, knees up like Imperials and arms swollen like a Nord’s. Cicero’s having a dandy time copying me until he spots treasure in the winding annex. He presses his face flat against another gate. This one protecting a hoard of items I already have in my bag.

“Shiny…” he says, then he gasps. “That one looks like cheese!”

“WHERE!?” I stamp myself into the gate. It’s cold and I probably bruised my cheek. There’s gold ore and a treasure chest but the way Cicero’s delight livens the dreary space, I already have what I want.

“Get goin’!” Arnie grabs Cicero by his clothes and nearly throws him down the bend. He then threatens me three paces away. “You too!”

I already had the gate opened and I swiped everything before following the boys.

Cicero and I give Arnie much needed tests of patience, all the while he tries his best to sniff out an exit that doesn’t involve more than a few kills or traps. Automatons mostly. We each pick one and do a dance as they fall apart, held by magic I assume. I catch Cicero singing to himself and he catches the gems I throw at his head. I always miss and we always laugh about it.

“It’s pretty stupid to think humans can follow such strict tenets,” I snicker.

Cicero chuckles. “Oh why is that, disdainful mistress?”

“Guys!” Arnie’s warning fades with his attempt.

“I mean…” I brush my palm across the golden bars. “If a god wants followers, wouldn’t they drop expectations altogether? What are rules if not a cage for pets than worshippers?”

He shrieks. “You wound poor Cicero!”

A dagger flies across the room and hits the bars. Ringing pierces my ears. I cover them and follow the trajectory. Strands of my hair fall where the point dented the metal. I snort and look at Cicero who’s folded over in giggles until he falls on his ass.

“You almost killed me!” I exclaim.

My laughs lose their sound in my belly.

“I know!” He says, gasping.

I pick up the dagger and throw it broadside at him. He resheathes it, his laugh growing with each miss until he makes it.

“You were so mad!” My sides stab me to curb the hysterics.

I must be red in the face by now and that’s quite a feat. I offer myself as a grab hook and he takes my wrist. Instead of pulling to stand he pulls me down. I thought I was going to break my face but I land on his chest.

“I still am!” He wraps his hands around my throat. “I could turn that face purple if it wasn’t already!”

Tears stream through the crinkles of his watering eyes. I roll off when his belly bounces me into a second fit. My arms flail to shake off the coursing energy. I snort again and cover my face.

“All right, you two.”

I see bare feet stop at me. Black and red pan up as I’m lifted into the air from my belt. Arnie meets me nose-to-nose.

“Found an elevator,” he says.

I cover my nose. His breath smells like a dog’s.

“Good boy,” I say.

The ground smacks me cold and hard. I lie my face against the stone and I swear my cheek steams from the chill.

“Catch up when you’re sober.”

Arnie vacates our toxicity and I don’t blame him for that, just everything else.

My eyes wander where I don’t have to move. Pipes trail past a joining room where Arnie disappeared. Nooks hold various supplies and places to work armor or tan leather. The automaton dispensers remain dormant now that we’ve killed them. I remember how they open like hawk eyes, pupils growing large and shrinking. Or like an ass pooping orbs of murder. Murder poop.

“Where’s Blodblomyr?” Cicero asks.

“Gone,” I say.

Along with the want to continue that subject.

We side-step the murderous fan blades by hugging the wall, then I show off by sitting on a torch head the dwemer built on the ground.

“Azura made Dunmer the smoke up everybody’s ass!” I say.

Cicero chuckles. The mysterious effects wane. I try holding on to the fumes but whatever’s gotten in our system has left, and we’re now back to our selves, whatever that entails. The gas we inhaled should have affected Arnbjorn but it didn’t. Perhaps only works on smaller people, or his metabolism is so fast it burns out before he feels anything. His recovery would have to be even higher in order to endure the metamorphosis. I don’t see why he doesn’t just walk around naked. It’s not like he’s being indecent. It’s not Grelod the Kind turned Nude. It’s…well…a Nord. They’re built to look good.

“There are too many traps for that big oaf to make it out alive,” Cicero says, apparently thinking of him as well.

I find a ramp and head up.

“Good,” I say. “One less problem.”

Double my problems, actually.

“He’s our brother.”

I snap, “We’re not family!”

He levels at the top with me and accentuates his posture to be just the right height for many things. The second thing I think of is my teeth in his neck chewing through flesh.

“Cicero knows we’re not,” he says, “but it’s nice to pretend.”

“Family is overrated.”

His tears of laughter dry up in the crevices of age, a knowing pain he chooses to lock away, and keep from me because I haven’t earned it. I dismiss myself and walk onto the elevator. Webs stretch thicker than wool in the shaft above us, so the only way out is down. Cicero turns to me, holding words unfinished. I pull the lever and my insides jump when the platform lurches, and the gear chains crackle, and move.

“Of course the mistress would say that,” he utters. “You had one.”

The shaft ascends carved rings and lines of wear. Our only light emits from where the webs cover. I light a handcrafted torch—braided linen dipped in horker oil and wrapped around a long stick. It churns our shadows, split at angles to different values. I had been worried about saving all the orphans from Grelod’s claws that it turns out they’re not all children. I square my shoulders with him and he’s closer than I had reasoned in the dark, but I don’t step back.

I respond, “So you cling to religion to feel like you belong.”

“You push everyone away because no one ever loved you, not even yourself.”

“That’s where you miss the mark. I was loved…too much even.”

“Cicero doesn’t think the mistress knows what love is nor what to do with it if she had it.”

I breathe in the humid air but it cannot fill my lungs. I try to compose myself but I return to being the little girl playing by herself, entertained by keeping balance on a fence. On the brink of falling I had a choice to drop into Mother’s herb garden, or the mud, and messing her handmade dress. Either choice of words would hurt Cicero, any action I choose would change our dynamics, our relationship. I was the one that invited him in, enthralled with his vibrance, and I am the one that’s keeping him out of arm’s reach because I’ve found something I don’t like.

“What I do know is to be careful and not become Muiri.”

He steps in, breaching the arm’s length to a hand.

“What has sweet Cicero done to deserve such disdain?”

“You violate my silence.”

“Cicero has lived in silence for ten years and you can’t live without it for one minute?”

“You make me not think!” I flail and sparks fly. “I need to think! It’s my refuge!”

“There’s no refuge in the silence. Only loneliness.”

The elevator slows and locks itself into a mechanism that rotates a gate open. Eerie teal light awaits us. I lead with the fire and stop at another fan blade.

“I like being alone,” I say.

I walk down the side of the long hall and around a broken steam pipe where large double doors greet me.

“Cicero doubts that very much,” he says.

I clench my teeth. I spin on the ball of my foot, the flames trail a curve around me.

“I’d be better off in the Void with your Dread Father than you would.”

Cicero jumps me and I drop the torch to grab a knife, but he’s already slashed me. I gasp. He pins me against the wall. My pulse speeds off with the drums banging in my chest. He holds his dagger against my neck. I wait but no pain or trickle of blood comes. I look down. My leather’s split open and nothing else.

“A warning,” he says. “I never miss a kill.”

“Oh yeah, High Road?”

I took the low road. My hands may not have made it in time for his neck but my knife found the crease between his leg and hip. One slice across the triangle and he bleeds out in minutes. He should be scared or angry, but he’s neither. His face isn’t like it should be.

It brews a smirk and he recites, “Trust is just a fragile thing until the day you feel a sting. It breaks your neck and pretty wing. You’ll never fly again.”

Strength leaves my hold on the knife. Feeling in my fingers wither. Metal clinks against rock.

“Failed trust moved me to Skyrim. Friends, left and right, died around me. When they had all gone and the Night Mother and I were left, I learned silence was deafening. When you have silence, it’s hard to keep stuff out. You’re left with everything you ever did, or didn’t.”

Cicero puts away the dagger.

“Alain Dufont was fiction,” he continues. “Muiri believed the lies because he made her see only what she wanted. This is me, mistress. This is your Cicero. Every thorn underfoot and buzz in your ear. I can’t make the pain go away because I’m just a man, merry in ways, but a man. You can’t expect me to be perfect, to throw me away because I don’t fit.”

“I came to you because you didn’t,” I mutter, “but I don’t think you’re not perfect.” My voice breaks. “I need an excuse to keep you away because I’m not.”

He reaches to brush my cheek and I block him. His brow furrows. He takes my hand instead, glove in glove, and leans in, reading the tremors in my lip, the scar clawed down my skin, and the tattoo interlacing it. A heartbeat that’s not my own beats in my ears. Horker oil and smokeless flame conspire in the humidity and the steam punishes us to sweat, endangering me with his natural musk. His lips part, he gazes pensively, and in what he cannot say he says everything, and my refrain loses to his desire.

Cicero’s lips almost seal mine when the doors open and I jump. Arnbjorn limps through and shuts them with his back. His hair cascades over his eyes. He slumps to the floor, holding his side, then lets out a long groan. Cicero turns to the intrusion. Only when Arnbjorn looks up does he pull away from me. I bite my lower lip and hope it bleeds.

Arnbjorn says, “I think I’ve been poisoned.”

I salivate in my wish unquenched by the moans that should be mine.

Cicero looks at the wound. “You’re cut deep, brother.”

“Stupid Falmer got me. I almost had the bridge down when I got blindsided.”

Cicero chortles when I snicker and I’m taken back. More eager to kiss now than before.

He glances back at me. “Well, we’ll finish off the rest together, brother, then we’ll be on our way home to get you to your wife, and nurse you back to your old grumpy self.”

“Thanks, brother,” Arnbjorn hiccups.

Arnbjorn’s eyes are sunken, his skin pallid, and grayed, but he acts like he came out of a tavern less a fight. I help Cicero get him up and take Arnbjorn’s arm over my shoulders. The two-hundred pound beast man feels like a furry potato sack than a horse cart.

Arnbjorn slurs, “Thanksth, Iggy, you’re a pal.”

I sneer at the alias. He’s not poisoned; he’s sick.

“That is not my name,” I say.

“Iggy,” Cicero grins. “I like that.”

Arnie chimes in. “Do you have little spriggan ladies dancing around your heads too?”

I feel I have to put up a front around Arnie.

“Don’t you dare,” I say.

He seems to play along. “Would you prefer Iggy or Heretic?”

“Heretic, please.”

“Iggy it is.”

Cicero and I pull open the doors together and the heat drops several degrees. The next room is large with a tower of arched and straight staircases to upper lofts. Decorating the corners are huts made from chitlin and other creepy matter. Mist travels along the cool stone, illuminated by the hanging cylindrical lights. I spot the bridge. This shouldn’t be too hard.

Steam rooms of endless pipes, ridiculous puzzles, pressure plate traps, Falmer mages, Chaurus, more automatons, and one big fucking Centurion all while dragging this drunken werewolf through it all, we make it to a room with some weird crystal shard I know nothing about, so I take it like the hoarder I am, and pray to all the powers in the universe this elevator goes up.

The scent of snowfall lifts my spirits and Arnbjorn doesn’t weigh nearly as much anymore.

“So which tavern are we going to?” Arnie asks.

The elevator finishes its ascent. It unlocks us from a gatehouse with a switch to be let outside. I leave Cicero with Arnbjorn to embrace Skyrim.

Cicero answers, “One with less steam an pointy stabby things, Cicero would think.”

“You mean I wasn’t imagining that golden giant chasing us?” Arnbjorn’s eyes widen so comically I almost fall over laughing.

“No,” I say, “and Cicero trying to kick it into the water was real too.”

“All of it?”

I scan the vista. We’re on top of Raldbthar, with the domed roofs and narrow stairs leading back down. I’m tired of carrying Arnbjorn. I’m sure Cicero’s sick of it too. I spot dwemer parts in an alcove and beckon the boys down.

“So the giant, the traps, you two kissing—”

Cicero and I both stop to say, “What?”

“K-kissing?” I sputter.

“Didn’t I see you kissing?” Arnie says.

“No, that part was imagined.”

“Oh that’s a shame,” he says. “I had a nickname ready for you guys. Surf ’n’ Turf.”

“Well, maybe you can still use it.”

I show off the dwemer plate, a large hemisphere that can barely fit a Nord’s ass on, but perfect for at least the two people here. I hand it over and give a similar plate to Cicero. He observes it eagerly. I take mine and go to the edge of the stairs. There’s enough snow cover for this not to hurt too bad.

“Our horses are dead,” I say.

I look down the path and my chest swells with exhilaration, ballooned in panic and disregard. “Last one down’s a Riften fish barrel!” I drop on the plate and shoot down the stairs. Wind hits my face and cools my armor. The world zooms past but what’s in front of me sharpens. Cliff incoming, so I lean and veer right, onto another set of stairs until they drop off onto a wide slope in the mountain. Nothing but domed roofs and the trees in the distance. I don’t have time to slow down. I hit the roof and I fly. I see where we started. Bodies everywhere. Nerves sting me as I fall but with adrenaline I’m invincible. I strike the snow at the top of the hill and punch the air a cheer.

“Woooohoooo!”

I gain speed downhill, past the dead horses, and into the span of freshly fallen winter.

“**Wus!**” I shoot forward but lose my grip on the plate. White becomes the sky and I somersault into the cold headfirst, ass next, feet in the air. When I turn up, the plate’s left me far behind. I applaud and fall back to make a snow elf.

Cicero cries, “LOOK OUT!”

I shield my face, my knees block my stomach. Cicero flies past and sprays me in his wake. Incessant, maniacal cackling closes in, and Arnie whizzes across the snow, trying to call back at me for something, not paying attention to the incoming cart. He crashes. Another fitting end. Arnie rolls over, holding his stomach, then decides he’s better off when he finds a hunk of meat to chew on.

Cicero disappeared long ago. He climbs back up, arms stretched out when he sees me.

“Mistress!” He calls out. “That was…! That was…!”

The ground rumbles and Raldbthar blasts apart. I scramble to my feet and watch debris fly further than I did. I grab the plate to protect me but we’re far enough away—a chunk of roof comes at me, Cicero dives for me and the roof hits the snow. I don’t know how he got to me so fast. My chest pounds as I watch the ruins burn. That could’ve been us, is all I think of. Rather, that could’ve been me. 

“I don’t think I did that,” I pant. “Did I?”

I turn to Cicero and my cheeks flush.

“You must have,” he says, looking down on me.

“Hey, Surf ’n’ Turf!” You all right?”

Cicero gives me once last lookover, then stands when Arnie makes it over. “The Mistress and I are fine.”

Arnie offers me a hand. I stare it down. Cicero does too, and looks to me with curiosity. What will you do, his eyes say.

I take it and he pulls me to my feet.

Arnie remains oblivious, and we all hear his stomach rumble.

“I must still be hungry,” he says. “I smell chicken.”

The black smoke must have been seen from Winterhold by now. We manage to find a nearby inn before night settled. We take their biggest room so Arnie can fit on the bed and we can watch him unconfined. I make him a poultice and warn him not to eat it before he passes out and leaves Cicero and I to his snoring. With a mug of tea, and a cozy fire, I sit in a chair watching all the doors, and any people that might come in. I stare at the fire until I hear stirring in the next room or find some other excuse to get up, and stretch my legs. Cicero keeps quiet for once, out of respect for my silence, or he doesn’t know what to say when we’re alone. I want to tell him that it’s the things unsaid that get my attention, but it defeats the purpose, and so we’re strangers through the night, until Arnie is feeling better, and we put on a face as if nothing’s wrong.

“I slept like the dead,” Arnie says over breakfast. After three plates, he asks, “I don’t like keeping secrets from my wife, but can we make a couple exceptions?”


	16. His Purrs in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A take on Whispers in the Dark following the aftermath of Raldbthar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my birthday! I finished something I wanted to so here's a new chapter!

Cicero volunteered to deliver the news to Muiri, but asked for a day to do it. We had stayed another night at an inn, this one closer to Windhelm, but far from Stormcloaks. Again, the men took beds, and I remained by the fire, exhausted. When I tried to shut my eyes I saw a fire I didn’t like so I remained awake with the one that warmed me. I didn’t mind because I got to think. I thought about what it would feel like to wear fresh clothes after a bath, but wondered if we had to dip our suits in a special solution to keep up with our poison resistance. All Brotherhood members are immune. Doubt spread over the time it took me to put more wood in the pit. I had measured his constitution and his scenario played over and over. A simple cut from a Falmer blade wouldn’t have brought him down, yet it did, or Arnbjorn thought it did. He said he didn’t see his attacker.

The explosion conveniently destroying Raldbthar after we were out raised even more suspicion, but as I sit at the table in Falkreath Sanctuary, across from the Nord himself nursing his ale, it feels like it never happened. The nightmare seeing a werewolf again, Cicero’s dagger cutting my hair, and Cicero pinning me, looking so hungry he could have been worse than the werewolf. All distant and imaginary now. We’re here safe and warm, nearly drunk, and Cicero beat us home.

Home.

I’m twisting my ale under my fingers when Cicero stops at the top of the stairs. I heard him talking to the Night Mother, nonsense that echoes through the halls, but when he joins us, he withdraws. He sits by Arnie in quiet contemplation, only glancing at me once before he gets up to pour himself a drink, and return to us. He clinks tankards with Arnie’s, and downs half. We look like shit; we smell worse.

“How’d she do, brother?” Cicero asks.

Arnie huffs. “It was out of control.”

I see the grin form before he drinks. “Cicero thinks all the funs ones are.”

I tilt my mug; there’s one last swig so I finish it.

Arnie asks, “Want more?”

An ache pangs me, a needle to my chest bone, then the rush before I choose to flee or charge. I feel the wooden stool beneath me and almost smell the sewer stench around me. Vekel’s young countenance inquiring the same question.

“Iggy,” Arnie says.

Cicero tries, “Do you want more, my mistress?”

I look between them and rewatch the mistakes we made. The emperor’s seamstresses couldn’t keep with the tears we made. The fabric of our plan poorly laid and we cut through it, burned it, and yet still managed, sloppily, to stitch it back together.

So this is what it’s like.

“Please,” I smile, squeezing the mug until I think I’ve dented the metal.

Two nights and we haven’t finished where we left off. I’m only holding the mug to keep my hands busy, and the alcohol has dazed my fury hopefully for the rest of the night. I still have an itch, a yearning below that’s juicing the rest of me to do something violent. If I can’t get it out I’ll likely turn this place to Raldbthar.

Cicero pours his half into mine and gets up for another. Arnie and I exchange silences, a peace between comrades who’ve seen more than they need to share. He scratches his neck and locks eyes on his mug. It’s all he has the energy for.

My leathers stick to me with the sweat and grime of our journey. I’ve yet to use the pool and it’s not because I’m shy. Arnbjorn’s wife stopped me for details and none of us have yet to put our feet up.

It’s wrong of me to name her after Aerin now that I know her spouse, but she still calls Cicero a clown, and I’m happy to keep up nicknames, but when Arnie’s around, I’m unsure. Maybe I slightly, strangely, respect the beast man. I haven’t stabbed him calling me Iggy and the Nine know all this tension straining on me has to be released somewhere.

Cicero sulks. “We’re out.” And turns optimistic too quickly. “Cicero shall return with a happy barrel to fill our empty bellies!”

Arnie waits for him to leave, then leans in. “What Astrid said.”

“About?” I say.

“Keeping an eye on him.”

I sip.

“You gonna do it?”

I sip again.

Aerin snaps her fingers at me. “Igniri!”

I address the hand first. It looks just like mine but attached to a blond. I’m going to rip it off if it snaps at me again.

“You stopped talking after something about the elevator.”

I did?

Aerin sighs. “Husband?”

I almost forgot he was still there.

“We told you,” he says. “I fell unconscious. They got me out. I spent a couple nights recovering and we came back here.”

“What of the ruins collapsing?”

“Happened after we left.”

“That makes no sense. People saw an explosion and then the ruins destroyed.”

“Something else must have triggered it.”

“But you caused the first one.” She points that finger at me and I want it to make a noise; give me an excuse. I can hear the bone breaking and flesh tearing now.

“On accident,” Arnbjorn tries. “It was my fault.”

“Really.” Even her posture disapproves. “And why is that?”

“He startled me,” I say.

That got her jaw slacking.

She says, “Well, aren’t you Dunmer full of surprises?”

That’s right, Nord. Sum us all up.

“What of Cicero?”

I look at the soup over the fire. I could’ve thrown her hand in there and improved the flavor.

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah. Fucker of goats.”

“You’re angry with him?”

Well don’t sound so excited about it.

“Sure.”

“Good.” Her voice oozes salacious malcontent. “I need you to spy on him.”

Arnbjorn waits more patiently than his wife does for me to answer.

“She said she’d braid my hair,” I say.

He implies, “I love my wife but I would never spy on her.”

I bounce my knee.

“Cicero’s not my wife.”

He catches my snark and waggles a finger. “But he did save you. And this nose smells a hell of a lot more than you want to know.”

I cross my ankles. “Oh yeah?”

“I can smell him on you.”

“Of course you can. He saved me.”

He shakes his head. “Wrong hormone.”

My shifty eyes can’t help themselves give me away when the eye in the table wood judges me sternly. I won’t be able to keep secrets from Arnbjorn but we’ve already kept secrets from his wife. I contemplate how far he’ll go to protect his pride. I have more to save than he does.

As Cicero returns with a barrel, we’ve already changed the subject so he’s not walking into an awkward silence.

“I could never do that,” I say.

Cicero beams, “Do what?” He drops the load in front of us.

I recognize the barrel from his room. We sat similarly, only Cicero was where Arnie was, and Arnie was far away.

“Hire someone to kill a lover,” I say, holding out my tankard.

He takes it and pours for me. “It’s not unheard of.”

Arnie shakes off a bad swallow. “I’d have to—somehow I think my wife would kill me with her stare before I got in range.”

“Cicero wonders if the Five Tenets would play in this.” He refills his drink.

I go rigid when Cicero sits next to me, his musk more pungent.

“Tenets don’t mean shit here,” Arnie says. “We’re talking outside the brotherhood.”

“But the Brotherhood is who we are through and through. It is not coincidence we end up here.”

“We’re all washed up murderers needing a place to live and do what we like. There’s no fate or divine providence. If you haven’t noticed, the Brotherhood hasn’t had a Listener in years.”

“Believe me, brother,” Cicero says, “I’ve noticed.”

It’s as if darkness creeped into his mouth and pulled the words on a breeze. He stares at Arnbjorn over the full mug, rigid, with the same look he gave Aerin when he arrived in the sanctuary.

I do my best to distract him. “Would you?”

Cicero breaks his death stare and beams at me. “Oh, I think if I had a lover there would be no need because it was based on an understanding.”

“So…”

“I’d give her a knife and the end of the count of three.”

I don’t laugh because it’s plausible he’s not joking, and it’s a fair deal. More than what most deserve.

“What about you?”

“I wouldn’t hire someone,” I say.

He nudges me. “But if you had to kill a lover…” His eyes are sharp as ever. “Would you?”

“Depends,” I say, recrossing my ankles.

“On what?” He swirls his drink.

“If they earned my effort.”

We emptied the barrel and found loaves of bread as acceptable snacks before deciding baths were next. Arnie minded to his own in his bedroom. I learned from Veezara the falls is their communal bath, as I assumed, and as much as I’d like to crash Arnie’s luxury hot tub, I don’t want to make the day go any longer, substantially now that I’ve lost complete hours of the day. I could have had breakfast for supper and not notice. I don’t hide myself when I peel off the leather and drop it at my feet on the pool’s edge. I sit on the rock in my underclothes. Bubbles spread over the rippling water, the stained glass reflection clings to what’s smooth, and as I look up at the real thing, I know Cicero’s on the other side, and the job I’ll have to do. It’s his own fault. It’s been years since I wanted someone to touch me and the man I choose runs back to his mother.

Tired of thinking, I roll forward and plunge into the cold. Crystal fizz filters through my hair and tickles as it casts up my body as I float below the surface, the roaring of the waterfall muffled now but still as loud in the air. It’ll be less than a few months until I make a similar decision on that Solitude bridge. How I wish I would have known now what I would know in the future. I could have stopped it. I could have said forget it, then let everyone kill themselves. The me on the ledge versus the me now—or then—are different women, and I wouldn’t be able to change their minds if it meant I would never see Cicero again. For now, he’s here, and at least I’m blissfully naive to betrayal.

I chat up Aerin about the Night Mother, gain her perspective while my hair dries. She lends me a long slip robe she bought from a khajit merchant. We seem to like our cats.

“What will change now that the Night Mother is here?” I ask.

“Very little,” she says. “You have my word on that.”

We sit in her bedroom after Arnbjorn left, warming by the fire.

She continues, “The Night Mother represents a chapter in the Dark Brotherhood’s history that has long since been closed. Today, we live by our own rules. We’re the last Sanctuary in all of Tamriel, and only by forgoing the old ways have we survived for so long.”

So Cicero feels alone too. The leader doesn’t believe in the tenets.

“My only worry is her ‘Keeper.’ I’m not sure what Cicero expects to gain by bringing the Night Mother here, but he’ll soon learn this is my Sanctuary.” She glowers at the flames until I blink, which isn’t long. “With your help, of course.”

Right. Figuring out who he’s talking to, even though I know it’s just himself. He did it almost the whole way up to my first client.

“Where do the Contracts come from?” I ask.

“They used to come from the Night Mother. Potential clients would perform the Black Sacrament, and she would hear their prayers. The Night Mother would communicate this to the Listener, who would then dispatch a Speaker to arrange the contract with the client. But that was a long time ago. There hasn’t been a Listener in years, not since Cyrodiil was overrun in the war with the Thalmor. But people don’t know that so they still perform the ritual and we eventually hear about it.” She folds her arms and leans back in her chair. “When someone wants us, we find out.”

Is she proud that their religion has failed?

She adds, “Don’t worry about that little…clown. I’ll be right here, ready if anything goes wrong.”

She’ll use any excuse to get rid of the only person here who has a rank in the old ways, and the easiest way is through the new mer. I’ve been manipulated before. The first time didn’t end so well, but I learned to use it to my advantage. Mercer Frey signaled my neck hairs the day I met him. With her, though…bells ring-ding-dong more obnoxious than my fanciful jester. And both keep me from fulfilling my need. Aerin’s gratitude would satisfy any normal person. It leaves the last bit of milk in the bottle when I need it for my porridge. Her hollow smile is the final drop before utter disappointment as I walk out, and shift my robe in case my breast pops out.

Gabriella fans herself in the apothecary. I had asked for help brewing a sleeping draught but really have no intent to use it, but I am still intoxicated, and when I pass out, I don’t want the nightmares ravaging me. Babette assists mostly while Gabriella sits at the study table, staring in the opposite direction of our work.

“What an adventure you had, my dear.” She doesn’t know what to do with her hands. “And with Astrid’s husband. How did you pull that off?”

“I didn’t want him there,” I say.

“He went with you willingly?” She’s found her hands suited for holding up her crossed knees. “That’s odd.”

Babette says, “Ashtrid shent him. Don’t look sho deep into it, Gabriella.”

“But we’ve always done our first jobs alone. It’s how they mark our prowess. If we’re dead, we didn’t do very well, now did we?”

“Maybe she wanted to ensure her success. There aren’t many of ush anymore.”

“Too true.”

Babette’s brew smells of used socks dipped in something overly sweet. I saw her heat milk before pressing oils out of a white flower’s stem. The few drops she got in the milk now follows a spoonful of honey. She stirs, then hands it to me. The cup is smaller than a tankard, like holding a horse dick all your life, then you’re told to work on a goat’s instead. They have to or we don’t get more animals. If they don’t mate, we make them, and that means little Igniri learns how to help the animals, all while she gets none.

“Sister?” Gabriella says. “Are you all right? You’re shaking.”

“Hm?” I stare at the giant spider below us. Bet he’d have a mate.

“Oh that’s just our pet,” Babette says. “He won’t hurt you.”

No one here’s helping me get a mate.

“Thanks for the brew,” I say.

Babette could have curtseyed the way she looks at me, but her eyes are black holes in a child’s plump face.

“What’sh family for?” she says.

I head out but Gabriella’s jaws still move and the sound follows me down the hall.

“Did you see him tonight?” she asks Babette. “I swear his back was as broad as an oak and just as hard.”

“You need to shtop peeping on Arnbjorn. Ashtrid’s going to kill you.”

“Not Arnbjorn. That new strange fellow; the Night Mother’s Keeper.”

Babette scoffs. I almost trip over my robe.

“It’s true! Who knew underneath all that there was…_that_.”

An older man’s voice grinds in the air. “Will you two knock it off!? Some of us are trying to have a little peace and you’re yapping like a pair of castle maids!”

I must thank Festus later, perhaps with a silent nod of approval to keep said peace.

I jolt awake. Quickened breath, tingling fingers, and body too hot to lie in bed. Silence permeates the sanctuary. Either they’re asleep or dead, but my first problem’s shaking off the dread from a dream I don’t remember. I knock over my empty cup when I swing my feet around. Aerin’s personal quest rings over until I’m sick of hearing it and I head for the chapel. I’m sure I would run into Cicero; more silence, instead. An eerie thought that I’m being watched and a sudden calm when I meet the Night Mother’s coffin again flows and conflicts in me.

“You need a hiding place,” Aerin had said. “Somewhere Cicero’d never think to look.”

Inside the coffin.

She wants me dead.

I didn’t know how to go about asking Cicero to be my lover, or let it be public, since my last so-called relationship ended up a disaster. It would be easy, and wiser, to keep the front going. Even though Arnbjorn seems friendly with the idea, Aerin would find it a threat. It could be fun watching her squirm, but Cicero is in my deep side of personal. Using him is off limits, even if he’s left me…unsatisfied. But would it hurt to feel his attention on me again one last time? Even if that means a blade in the heart, I could withstand it. His Mother is all he has. I’ve already insulted her on every level, why not this one? After all, what’s the one thing I could do that entertains me?

The lock’s easy to pick. I flick it open with a finger. A new sensation rises, lifting the effects of sleep, invigorating me. I feel myself again. But it’s not a door I can go through and come out another side. This is the end not just the Mother’s or mine. Everyone dies. Falkreath knows and what a convenient place for me to savor this moment with resting places in convenient reach. And the silence as if the Sanctuary is already entombed quietly into the draught that failed me, with the man who almost had me.

I open the doors gingerly. They’re heavy and just as intricate inside as out with a body standing in perfect stillness, preserved with such skill only someone obsessed would suffer that much attention to the details. There are things in this world that make me run because I like to, but the ones I run from should be what everyone else would. A naked mummy, for instance, where the societal norm for the dead are either wrapped in cloth and burned, or buried. The holes in her face gape past me, as if there’s more to see than where I am. She holds herself, embracing precious organs eternally absent. Instead of lying in her sarcophagus, she’s active, and if this chapel were full, she’d have started her sermon by now.

Based on Assterd’s views, no one else but Cicero visits. I convince myself his Mother just wants a hug if I’m to invade her place. But I won’t do it without civility. It is as important in death as in life, an experience when I killed Grelod, and Beitild.

My bare feet press against metal’s chill when I step into the coffin, and inhale what I thought would be putrid. She’s less musty than the ones I find in old tombs and hydrated with fresh oils and a perfume I can’t place. I close the coffin and I swear I’m outside with the pine forest, a fresh breeze as I stand still in the blackest night, catching the scent off the trees in summer. I should be cold in this thin cloth but warmth envelops me. It wasn’t a potion I needed, it seems. I wrap my arms about her waist and she’s more benevolent than the parents who raised me, more present than the ones who birthed me. In the moment before the onset of drowsiness, I wanted to stay here, clear my mind, and think of nothing but nothing. Let my desires stray and the quests of others wander alongside until it’s just me and the Mother in the dark. My forehead leans on her collar and I let my eyes close.

“Are we alone?”

I seize and my slow blood rhythm jumps and pounds so fast it could beat for both of us. Cicero’s voice enters the room. I can’t hear his footsteps, just like in the ruins.

He hums a tune. He must be at the steps now, so close he could hear me if I breathe, but I stopped.

“No one will hear us,” he says. “No one will disturb us. Everything is going according to plan. The others. I’ve spoken to them and they’ll come around.”

Aerin’s paranoia invades me.

“Festus Wrex,” he continues, “and perhaps even the Argonian, or the Unchild. What about you? Have you spoken to anyone? No of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing, and the saying! And what do you do, hm!?” He screeches. “NOTHING! NOT—sigh…I’m not angry. Never. Cicero understands. He always understands. And obeys.” His voice shakes. “You will talk when you’re ready, won’t you? Won’t you? Sweet Night Mother.”

“Poor Cicero…”

That’s not me, I swear.

“Dear Cicero…”

Again. Not me. Someone’s hiss-purring in my head.

“Such a humble servant, but he will never hear my voice for he is not the Listener.”

It could be part of being Dragonborn, or the ancestors slipping through the flames. But Aerin-Assterd mentioned the ranks of the old ways. And Cicero’s adamant in the religion.

“Oh but how can I defend you?” Cicero squeaks. “How can I exert your will if you won’t speak…to anyone!?”

The incessant mumblings and hum-blings while we’re together was to fill the silence left by his Mother? Is that right?

Not Me says, “Oh, but I will speak. I will speak to you. For you are the one who has his heart. You. With whom I share my iron tomb. You, Igniri.”

Me, Not Me?

“You who warms my ancient bones.”

Not Me isn’t me but Mother. Not Me…Night Mother. No Me. Ni Mo. N. M. En. Em. En-em…en-em. A heartbeat. En-em-en-em.

She says, “I give you this task: journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre.”

His voice parts my mental rambling, once beats breaking the shadows and illuminating her face.

“Poor Cicero,” he cracks. His hand muffles the sound briefly. “I failed you. Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet Mother. I tried so very hard, but I just can’t find the Listener!”

En-em-en-em.

“Tell Cicero the time has come,” she says. “Tell him the words he has been waiting for all these years…”

The doors pop open. I stumble out. Cicero stares, a type of shock I’ve only seen once but on a dozen faces. The room’s red glow that brought comfort now crafts terror. I’m locked at the top of the steps, a hunter who’s encroached upon the mother and her cub, but the cub has the claws.

Cicero’s jaw wavers and he exhales, “You.”

If I didn’t know my future, I’d think this is the time I die. I don’t know it yet, really, but I will soon, after blades comes down, the forests blur, in raging orange, smoking out life, choking us out. I’ll feel just as helpless as I do now, without my bow, or my armor.

I wait for him to come at me. I want him to. End me to end all the I suffer, this confusion of hate and adoration, my past haunting me all hours, people using me to make their lives better while mine gets worse.

He lunges. I spin out, around him, and push him into the coffin. End me but not without a little fun. The rush fills me and it’s Helgen again. He catches up to me, we scuffle, but I don’t know what he’s grabbing for, so I defend all vitals as I can, but I miss my neck. He twists about and grapples me. I push back to relieve the pressure and slam him into a wall. A table falls. He kicks away a chair. Cold metal touches my neck—I freeze. His heavy breath moves down my neck. I try to move my arm pinned between us. The blade slips across—I stop. My fault. A trickle of blood tickles my skin. There’s no way to move without him knowing. I have to get him talking again.

“Wait,” I say.

“Defiler,” he says, and I move my hand a bit. “Debaser.” I move it more.

I don’t realize where it is until I try an old trick, and my fingers cup a full erection. I stop breathing. Stuck between two blades and both, admittedly, excite me more together than apart.

“Wild wretch of a woman,” his voice shakes, resisting something; an urge. “Explain yourself.”

“Darkness rises when Silence dies,” I say.

His grip loosens. I grab his wrist and slip under and over with his elbow in my other grasp as I flip the circumstances, take the knife, and let it meet his cheek with my mouth nearly on his.

“The Binding Words,” he says.

He knows them just like she said.

“She spoke to you.” He brushes his glove down my face. “Listener. My Listener.” I taste his breath and I lean in. He combs my hair and grabs the strands to hold me still, but he’s the one quaking. Cicero watches my eyes flicker with his, reading the same line over and over until I’m craving him. I let the robe part so only my breasts hold the cloth. He moans and caves to what he should have done before. He seals his lips to mine, pulls me against him, and devours me until I’m so dizzy I hold him tighter to keep from falling, but I feel I already have.


	17. He Tastes Funny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri is or isn't the Listener, Cicero finishes what he started, and gets all those hard to reach places... Igniri wants to tell him everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty Songs that Inspired this Chapter: "Heart of Light;" “Hazy Shade of Winter” (Hidden Citizens), “Dr. Ford” (Westworld), “Motion Picture Soundtrack” (VSQ)

I pull away to make sure it’s still him and I’m not in a dream where eventually I’ll wake up in another pub in another city with another hangover. I don’t understand this new feeling, this rush of unadulterated bliss. My hands move all over Cicero, having nowhere to go but not wanting to stop. I need more. He pins back on the wall. Hard, hot, wet kisses that never stop. Our tongues fight to be one. He grabs my ass and squeezes. I moan. Still not enough. I need more. I need…

I need him to say something. He hasn’t spoken a word since we almost murdered each other. It’s been seconds that feel forever. The quieter it is the more I think. The more I think the more I know I’ll be in the past and I won’t be here. I open my eyes shortly before he does, like he knows I’m watching. He hugs me, red hair clings to my flushed cheek.

I want him to say words. Tell me I’m beautiful, tell me how I feel against him, tell me what he wants. Tell me how he wants me. Let them breeze into my ear and make my knees weak. I can already imagine the things he wants and gods I’ll do them all.

“Footsteps,” he whispers.

What?

He pats my hand, the one with the knife, and jumps back to straighten his tunic, and wipe his mouth. I miss him already. Heat abandoned, I’m left aching, throbbing with need. The hindrance storms in and I tighten my knife grip until it hurts enough to distract me.

Aerin took the ramp up from the waterfall, brandishing decent acting skills, but not her blade.

“By Sithis! This ends now!” She runs up between us. “Back away, fool! Whatever you’ve been planning is over!” Yells become worries. “Igniri! Are you all right? I heard the commotion!” She looks me up and her pink color drains. “Did he hurt you?”

Not without permission. I close my legs. My groin tingles. The same tingle grows in my ears and hands.

“I thought the worst had happened,” she continues. “Where’s the accomplice?”

Cicero answers, a better actor than her, “I only spoke to the Night Mother but she didn’t speak to me. Oh no. She only spoke to her.” He waits for effect, letting the words sink before the real deal. “To the Listener.”

“You’re joking.”

Cicero frowns. “Do I look like I’m joking?” He raps his curled boot annoyedly. 

“She’s not the Listener!” she yells and spins like I would when a twig breaks behind me and I’m alone in the forest. “What is this lunacy?”

Cicero grins, applauding me directly, an excuse probably to get another good look at me. “The Night Mother has spoken. The Silence has been broken.”

“Igniri?” she pleads.

The next words out of my mouth were supposed to be “fuck me” but now…

“It’s true,” I say, just as bewildered and disappointed as she looks.

Cicero laughs. “The Listener has been chosen!” His smile gapes wide and obnoxiously gleeful.

The urges don’t fade but my euphoria does and for a split second I doubt Cicero wants me for me but me the Listener. I cling to the evidence at the farm. How locked on we were. I adjust myself and Aerin’s robe. She eyes the knife in my hand but sees the cut on my neck.

Before she asks, I say, “There’s a password.”

He sings, “Well, the Brotherhood has been tricked before. Can’t allow that to happen again.” He giggles.

“I see,” she says.

She takes my arm and I watch Cicero watching me leave. My thighs glide easily from the wetness as we walk, and she sits me down where I had tried to sleep before. I think of ways to hasten my way back to him. But she keeps asking questions. My driving lust mutates into frustration and I mark all the pretty places I could put this knife in her.

“You can tell me,” she mutters. “You’re safe now.”

Then I mark all the dirty places.

“I get it if you don’t.” She lets her arms dangle when she leans on a dresser. “So he just talks to the Night Mother’s body? According to everything we know, she only speaks to the chosen Listener. And she just spoke. To you.”

I don’t nod. I let her play it out in her head.

“By Sithis. Well…” She begins to pace. “What did she say?”

I sigh. If it gets her to leave.

“She said I must speak with Almond Moatear in Volun-rude.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name.”

I hold the snicker in; it could be the first time I’ve used a nickname out loud.

“But I do know Volunruud.”

I’m often volun-rude.

“I can check for you tomorrow.”

“No,” she snaps. “No! I don’t know what’s going on but you take orders from me. Are we clear on that?”

The irony levels behind her head, where a framed copy of the 5 Tenets hangs on the wall, illegible, old, and almost forgotten.

Her pace quickens. It’s boring to watch when she doesn’t pace off a cliff. “The Night Mother may have spoken to you but I am still the leader of this Family. I will not have my authority so easily dismissed.”

“Am I or am I not the Listener?” I say.

“You are apparently but—I—I need time to think.”

I try not to jump off the bed with a smile.

“Nazir should have some work for you while I sort this out. I suggest rest, though. You’ve been through a lot.” She looks me down again.

I touch my neck. It’s already dried.

“It could’ve been worse,” I say.

“I know,” she says. She holds the words in the air, looking at me to see if she should say more. She dismisses herself and when she’s out of sight, I take off.

When I return to an empty chapel, my throat goes dry, and I lose myself in the dizzying realization. I glance into his room. The furniture’s rearranged but no one’s there. I turn to go.

Something tugs my wrist hard and I lurch back. I’m spun around and pressed against another wall. Cicero stares, unblinking, unmoving. His gloved hand had muffled my protest until I realized it was him. He’s different from the brief time in the chapel, a power courses through him that can only be sensed in person. He releases my mouth and pulls off the glove, then the other one, and throws them. They slap the ground. Then, he takes the knife in my hand and carefully returns it to his belt. He doesn’t leave me time to catch my breath as he kisses me, deeper until my lips are sore from his rough shave. I pant when he lifts away to slide my robe to my feet. Someone could walk through that doorway, someone could hear us. My heart leaps into a frenzy. I grab Cicero’s neck and kiss him again. His hands explore me and waves drown me in tingles and pleasure and, gods, don’t stop. Don’t stop.

He hushes me. I must have made a noise. He covers my mouth again and I fight a moan; a whine escapes. He watches me. I don’t know what for until his hand trails downward. My chest heaves with the quickened pulse and, with my sex already aching to be touched, I press myself into the wall to stable me before…before…

Thrills of heat flood over as his fingers slip easily between my legs. When I buckle he leans into me, his cheek against mine. He exhales quick and hard in my ear. I latch myself, digging into the fabric folds, anything to keep me grounded. My mouth flattens on his shoulder and I inhale him. Leather, musk, and herb. Underneath the cloth hides taut muscles Gabriella claims she saw. My hands drift across his shoulders and back; there’s something here, certainly, but his hand massages me in a place I used to do myself, and I lose the thought entirely.

I bite him. He growls low and subtle, but he doesn’t stop. He’s steady and deliberate. I’m melting into him the faster my heart drums inside until my ears throb and tingle. I suppress another moan.

I could reciprocate but my arms are butter and I’m barely holding on. Cicero’s hair sticks to his reddened skin. I want to pull off his hat but I waver losing his eccentricity. The flair that belongs to him, all of him. He’s freed me from my cage, he’s shown me color exists, and someone’s not just in it for themselves. He serves me. By all the fucking nines, tens, and however many more gods want people to worship them, this one worships me. And I’m so close, so close to knowing how much.

Cicero knows I am. I’ve gone too quiet for him to muffle. He plays me as if he’s known me for years, memorized the strings, and stroked them in time, building me into a song he’s wanted me to sing, but this is a private performance. My face burns hotter and the room darkens, until all I feel is the need to cry out. Deep in the beginning of all life, an unbearable and maddening explosion must have taken Cicero’s hand, and I hang off him, in full tremor, as wave upon wave of unexplainable sensations take me. Before I scream, he clamps his other hand down, and holds me past the tremors, in my weakened, limp state, for as long as I need, and as I needed it to be forever, it’s as fleeting as the doubt in my mind about a man who desires me only as Listener, but is my Keeper, and in whole, mine alone.

We lie on his bed that’s moved out of the doorway’s sight. The table’s adjusted angle makes it a maze to get in. Enough time to kill anyone who invades our holy ground, and with only the hall lights accompanying the shadows pooling out the room, they’ll never know who stabbed them. Our fingers play with each other, contact weaving in constant motion, like we’re addicted to the touch, obsessed with memorizing every freckle and line.

“What are you thinking?” I say quietly.

“Thinking…you’ll think me a fool if I say it out loud.”

“I am bare to you,” I smile into the curve of his embrace. “What more do I have to do?

“Ah I suppose…I believe you have earned Cicero’s mind, _bare_ thoughts, and all.”

He traces the star in my palm, lines crossing as if Azura marked me personally. Silently warning Cicero. She’s trouble, it says. Run fast, run far.

“You are a gift,” he answers. “I have served and I have sacrificed. Who I was. Am.” We interlace fingers. “I was going to leave. I don’t trust—this place. But I trust the Night Mother.” He kisses a knuckle.

“Tell me about Sithis,” I say.

Comprehension catches up to him and he seems just as surprised as I am to ask. He’s not going to change my mind, but I want him to talk if it makes him happy. The fluctuations in his voice are living poetry, rhythms that breathe and beat new energy in me, and if it keeps away the sleep, I’ll stay with him, and listen. Happily.

When silence falls between us, my gaze drifts from the crescent curve of his chin, to his freckles, the stray eyebrow hairs, and the latticed wrinkles across his brow, and around his smile. The rest of the details hide beneath the cap. I trace the crude stitching. There could be a mole, or a rescinding hairline. He could have horns or an extra pair of ears. And all that would be far more interesting than bland Skyrim. I pull it off. It could be the color of blood when it dies. His hair peaks at the center of his forehead, a crown fit for a king, yet he chooses the lesser. I comb through it—it’s soft and fine. It shines even in shadow. I’ve never seen hair so red. I curl a strand and trail it down to the tip. It falls naturally at the collar where I find gold fittings. I tease the coat laces. I could claim I travelled worlds losing myself in him, though in the scarce light I’m left to imagine the rest, as I’ve yet to peek.

A peace rests on me, the kind that comforts one to void secrets, deep words I’ve meant to drown, but come to the surface, and without thinking, they spill out.

“I killed my parents.”

I don’t know what I expected him to do. I never told anyone; people hear the stories and make assumptions as to what kind of monster it takes to do something so horrific. But his heartbeat remains steady, his hand in mine doesn’t sweat, or shake. I catch darker shadows curve about his mouth and I remember what he said at the Bannered Mare.

_Know what I learned when I first saw you?_

“'There’s a girl who could kill with a look,'” he says.

“That’s what you thought?”

“A kind killer,” he says. “And so far you’ve not disproved your Cicero.”

“I have to tell you.”

He kisses my palm. “Speak, my Listener.”

I think back to my nine-year-old ways, of Cicero being there if he could, and I let him in, with every detail I can recall, until he’s in my head too, and we both see from the eyes of my childhood, from the day I was not a kind killer. 


	18. The Ig, The Iggy, The Super Iggy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cicero follows Iggy into her Fiik Tey and relives her childhood memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mood Songs: "Him" - Slender Man; "Dad Was Not A Good Man" - Trapped

Blodblomyr never changes. It’ll be eighteen years since I made time stop. Only the events leading up to my interference stay alive in me. And now there’s Cicero, a man in his own mind as sane as I, but now he’s come to visit mine. We stand where I once fell, the bleak afternoon I screamed for Aerin. The village is empty at first, as I only want to see it for what it stood for, not who stood in it. I let him view the rows of wood houses, and the one at the end. I mention the stream and forest to our left, how I love the sound it made before sleep, and when I awoke.

“Which house is yours?” He asks.

I hastily point to the one with the nightshade.

“That one,” I say, then I describe my mother, the weather, the guards when they came for Aerin, and when he asks about me, I appear at our feet. A nine-year-old copy in a yellow dress, hair braided on the side, and held together in the back. I’m not wearing shoes. I’m pathetic, scrawny, with earsI haven’t grown into yet. I stare off into the distance; the edge of the village where Aerin’s ride vanishes, and I’m left in the middle of the road, a sobbing spectacle. My mother has left me and slammed the door to the house. No one else watches because figments cannot see if I didn’t know they were there. Only Cicero sees the mess I made. I tell him why Aerin left.

“There were more,” I say.

Child me—I’ll call her Ig—wipes her face with her sleeve. I don’t know how long I stood there. Enough for the cold to set in and my legs to ache. I break concentration when Cicero gets a better look at Ig.

“More what?”

Cicero shouldn’t have asked but I have to tell him because he’s the only one I want to be honest with.

“Orphans.”

I walk him into the apothecary, the whore’s house, and show him the herbs she’d brew together. It’s quiet. Vials rest in rows on the shelf, complacent, but something about them would put anyone smart on edge. It’s “This is where she said she helped the sick.”

Cicero sniffs and covers his mouth before the gag. He swallows and takes a moment before assessing. “Fermented flesh.” He glimpses the jars with labels. “Flower extracts, more likely the Deathbell than Nightshade. And something else. It’s fishy.”

“Betties. From the stream. Sometimes slaughterfish.”

“This is poison.”

“A debilitator.”

“Why?”

“To weaken prey.”

We walk into my house, passing Ig in the road, who’s frozen in the memory. I tell him about Hogni and my father, the people that would go missing, and more children sent away as months passed. The kitchen takes up most of the main floor, along with the dining room. Mother cooked a lot, while I cleaned the pots that made my hands all wrinkly. They’re as clean as I left them. I point to the larder.

“The meat would hang there. The other meat was wrapped so I wouldn’t see. A delicacy she’d say. Had to be prepared the right way. I used to help.”

“How did that make you feel?”

I flush, the warmth aggravates my neck and I scratch it. Mother had smiled when I beamed at her after finishing a dish. It looked horrible. I had forgotten that moment until now. “Proud.”

We step outside and Ig walks in the moonlight to Seben’s house. Ig’s face is dry of tears and her hair unbraided, though I asked Mother for help, she was always too busy. We follow me to the end of the road.

“There was a boy…”

A while after Father caught me on the steps of the Tulnar house, I noticed Seben looked sicker than usual. Many times in the day I tried to talk to him, but he’d walk the other way, and hide in his house. This time I had snuck around the back to check the window broken from before; it was his room, but he was gone. Father had taught me to track, so I put my skills to use. The footsteps from the window into the ground were male, and deep, but as I followed them into the woods that night, they stopped at a tree with broken bark, as if someone punched it off with colossal force.

“Are we following the grunting?” Cicero asks.

Animal noises carry from the distance. Silver light splinters through the trees, the rest is darkness, but I know the way. It leads to the end of the stream, where the hill cradles the lake, and wears mountains behind its shoulders. We peek out of the woodland’s edge and the sky opens with the land, a long strip of grass leading out to the horizon, to Hammerfell. Nested in grass and beach is a group of boulders, conveniently shaped for anyone to jump off and into the water, or to hide from hunters. Separate rocks lie in the water and texture the beach further down. There used to be mudcrabs here. I used them for target practice.

Ig’s bluish silhouette cautiously maneuvers around the boulder. I wouldn’t see me if it wasn’t for the dress.

“Seben?” Ig calls.

“Don’t!” The distorted voice of Seben calls back.

Cicero and I pincer around. Horns appear first, attached to the head of a bull packed with human muscle, save his legs. He sits in the sand, huddled against the rock. His hooves are caked with fresh mud that’s splashed up his dark fur. Whether it’s the first or thousandth time I’ve thought back to this moment, I’ll never forget the fear, the village’s collective terror carried within, weighing down the last survivor. His black eyes shine from wallowing, panicked and confused, as cattle caught in a line to slaughter.

He says, “Don’t eat me.”

Ig’s steady hand cautiously reaches out as one does with a stray, and offers that part of herself. He studies the calm expression, then accepts with a finger. Her grip almost wraps all the way around. The boy I wanted to marry is now five times Ig’s height, and as wide as a carriage. Every girl’s fantasy in the village was him, and now that every girl was gone, he was stuck with me.

Ig tucks her dress under and sits against the rock. I used to come out here to skip the flat stones. The view of the mountains and the open horizon to the south was a sight dawn to dusk. This was one of the only nights I snuck out and got to see how it looked at night. The dancing sky ribbons reminded me of Mother’s linen she’d hang outside to dry. I used to play between the sheets, until she told me those were used for cooking. I didn’t favor the irony.

“Why would I eat you?” Ig asks.

“Oh,” he wipes his eyes with his palm. “I thought your father sent you.”

Wind catches the surface of the water. He readjusts himself, maybe to look smaller than he is. His eyes flicker over Ig, where the woodland’s edge lies. I pick up rustling in the litterfall, not a snake or mouse, but careful footsteps.

“Why would he do that?” Ig asks.

He looks at Ig briefly. “You’re not like him?”

“I mean he’s my da, but I’m not going to—that’s gross.”

I think his muzzle smiles but it’s hard to tell.

“Are you a kind of were-bull?” Ig asks.

“A minotaur.”

“We have those here?”

“Why did you follow me?”

“I wanted to know if you were all right.”

“You shouldn’t. You should leave.”

“I’m not leaving you now.”

“Leave the village. Get out while you can.”

The steps on the forest floor vanish and I can’t hear over the wind swaying the grass.

“But I live here.”

“This isn’t home. It’s hell. You’ve lived here long enough to not know any better.” He goes on. “Do you know what happened to Aerin’s parents? Did you even ask why?”

Ig pulls her knees to her chest. “Every day.”

We’re silent for a while. The lake reflects the moon and scatters silver across the surface. I’m usually not out late without my parents knowing, but they were with friends, and without them watching, I had no curfew.

“Why does Tulnar hate me?” Ig asks.

“Is this about the fight?”

“What fight?”

“Your mother came over, made an offer on a dowry, and my father rejected.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re in the eye of the storm and you don’t know.”

“I don’t!”

“Or won’t. You refuse to see. You don’t know even what’s going on right now.”

The wind shifts, the ripples change, and I catch a scent, the one found in the apothecary.

“What did Brelinda do?”

“Nothing.”

He holds the same dread of telling Ig what I didn’t want to tell Cicero, that the evil we think is in the world is much closer than we can see with both eyes open. Blood throbs in my fingers and I grab Cicero’s hand. I clench my eyes. He doesn’t know what’s wrong until I tell him.

Lake debris crunches in the sand. Seben freezes but Ig’s the idiot that turns around to see behind her.

Wolves howl in the far distance but claws scrape against stone, and wet dog fills my nose. It creeps around the boulder. Large muzzle and matte black eyes glare Ig down. It snarls its long fangs and foul but sweet breath, as a drunk with too much mead. I don’t know how it got so close. Seben rushes to his hooves before it crouches.

It lunges and Seben headbutts it, no doubt a horn had lodged into skin. It flies back with a yelp and skids to its side before standing on its hind legs, as tall as the minotaur, but all fur, claws, and fang. Seben, only horns, hooves, and hands. Before it attacks again, Seben back kicks him, and tells me to run. Howls grow louder. Seben bellows angrily. The werewolf slashes at him but Seben grabs his wrists. They scuffle to the ground. The wolf gnashes, trying to get to his face or neck, but Seben’s strong.

“I said run!” He yells.

Ig jumps from the stain she left in the dirt and bolts for home.

“I shouldn’t’ve gone that way,” I say to Cicero.

“What’s that way?”

I squeeze his hand tighter.

Air wails in my ears. The werewolf yelps again but Ig looks straight. She’s almost to the tree line when a figure emerges. Mother holds Father’s ax, gleaming sharp. It glints when she twitches her wrist. A wave of relief takes her and Ig quickens, oblivious to the bloodsplatter across Mother’s clothes.

“Run, Ma!”

She grabs her arm when Ig’s near. So tight it stings. Ig tries to hide behind her. She yanks her around.

“Watch,” she says through clenched teeth.

Seben bellows. He knows what happened to me and bolts. The werewolf chases. Ig screams for him. Mother smacks Ig. Her forehead only throbs after she hits her again when Ig tries to pull away.

“You watch this,” she spits.

“NO!”

Ig sees red and Ma lets go as if she burned her. Ig tries to run but she’s stricken of all hope; she doesn’t see the point. They’re too far away but they’re right there. Seben can’t run fast. The werewolf jumps him. He scrambles to get back up, but it’s on top of him. He punches him off and jumps back up only to get tackled again. It bites his back. He bellows, louder and deeper than before, until it gurgles. Fangs shred his arms. Blood spurts. Seben swings his head about. A horn jabs it in the head and it yelps. Seben kicks him off, but it’s relentless.

The throbbing in Ig’s head grows hot. Her tears do nothing to cool her skin, only blur her vision. Ig wants to grab the ax, she wants to do lots of things, but she just can’t.

Cicero and I stand in between, in the field sprayed with dark red. I step where my younger self never could, into the violence, the terror at death’s fringe, and watch the werewolf conquer his meal. Seben goes rigid, his muscles failing him, or granting him a peace no normal human can have being torn apart. Prey’s Blessing, Father called it, where after they’re caught, and they know they’re going to die, their body paralyzes itself so it can’t feel being eaten alive. Seben must’ve had this blessing, though I hadn’t thought of that when it was happening.

Seben gapes up.

I think he sees me.

Tell me this is all my fault.

Tell me I killed you.

But he says nothing with the fangs at his throat, and then no throat at all.

It’s the most blood I’ve ever seen in my life, the most blood on my hands that’ll never burn away.

I look at Ig looking at Seben. I know what Mother is saying to her. I stand next to Cicero.

“She’s telling me, ‘It’s the only way we can survive.’ This is how we survive. Your legacy will continue in the arms of our gods, the only ones who know how we must live.’”

I hear my whimpering voice caught in the choking sobs.

“How will Seben live?”

“He was a sacrifice,” she snaps. “Tulnar knew the cost. He swore to it. I offered him your hand in marriage instead and he spat on our name. So now, he’s paid in full, and the village can live on. We’re safe. We’re free.”

Before my mother has time to react, the ax is in Ig’s grasp and she’s out of reach. I watch myself run toward me, run toward the werewolf. It snarls and circles around, fur upright between its shoulders. Blood saturating its face.

“Igniri!” Mother shouts and runs after me.

Ig swings at the werewolf, screaming “GO AWAY!” Screeching and swinging. Ig looks so stupid and hurt but mostly stupid.

It hops out of range, watching my rage, waiting for the opening for when Ig’s tired. It comes quick. The ax is heavy, not like a knife from Mother’s kitchen, and it swats it out of her hand. Her face stings and Ig realizes its claws got her where Mother hit her. All she sees is teeth and gums. It pins her down. Feels like a tree fell on her chest. She can’t breathe. But she also can’t help but fling her arms up when he goes for herthroat. Its drool comes down on flesh.

“OFF!” Mother shouts. “NOW!”

Mother stands over the werewolf like a bad pet. Crossed arms and a scowl. It growls at her and licks its muzzle, then suddenly Ig gasps from the release of pressure as it lets her go.

Fear had stopped Ig’s tears before, but it doesn’t stop her going for the ax. It helps. She doesn’t feel herself stand and run, she just does. She grabs the ax. She turns. The werewolf snarls and jumps for her. Ig’s in midswing when Mother screams.

“KUVLOD!”

The blade sticks into his shoulder. Father’s name repeats in my head. Her hands shake but she can’t let go of the handle. The werewolf yelps and whines. It tries to move but the ax is deep. Mother eases over to me, and when she gently peels off Ig’s grip, she glowers, and shoves her out of the way, stroking the werewolf’s face.

“You stupid girl!” She cries out.

Ig cries, “I’m sorry!” Over and over, sobbing a waterfall.

Heart clenching, lungs swelling, skin clammy.

Mother holds the werewolf’s head as he calms, the ax still in him, holding the blood, but I didn’t know that then. I only knew Father was dying and it was all me. Then, deeper than the ax, and sharper than it too, Mother screeches over the whines of her husband.

“I should have never bought you!”

Cicero pats my hand. I realize I’ve been squeezing too tight. He exercises it when I let go.

I tell him, “I tried to make it right.”

“Did he die?”

I look onward.

“Not then,” I say.

We stand behind Ig at barn in the village, and hearing townsfolk muttering within.

“If there’s anything else…” one says.

“No,” Mother says. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” Brelinda says. “He’s gonna be okay.”

Ig peeks through board cracks. The barn’s not well built but it keeps most of the rain and snow off the food for the village’s animals. It stands on the other side of the green span next to the house. Around it, the horses have room to graze. Enough space for me to run back to the house before Mother sees Ig watching her. She glances at Ig, her eye burning through the crack, her hand over her mouth, contemplating. She storms for the doors. Ig’s already halfway to the house. Her chest aches and Ig doesn’t think she’s blinked. Her body’s in enough pain from all the adrenaline. She wants to collapse but also wants to survive tonight. She slams the door and skip steps upstairs to get her things.

_I’ll run away. I’ll find Aerin at an orphanage. I’ll go to Markarth—_

The severed arm on the meat cart falls on the ground.

_—I’ll go to Falkreath. I’ll go somewhere far away. Anywhere but here._

Cicero and I stand in the corner, watching Ig grab anything from the dresser, but the thing is, I have nothing important to keep. She’s just rummaging, hoping to find anything that she cares about, only she never did. Nothing she needed. She needed a friend. You don’t find them in your wardrobe.

Cicero grabs his dagger when Mother barges into the house. I don’t settle him because even this part still feels real. I grip his sleeve.

Ig bursts into tears, shaking uncontrollably when Mother charges into my room. Ig’s screaming and I swear the neighbors know what’s happening. Why aren’t they doing anything? What did I do wrong?

“Demon child!” Mother yells. “Do you know how lucky you are!? You could have killed him!”

She reaches for Ig. She throws up her hands. Mother grabs her wrists and shakes her, snarling, and spitting. She shoves her against the wardrobe and starts around her bed. Ig grabs at her heart and pulls her knees up to guard herself. Mother growls and kicks the bed posts, then stops suddenly. An idea pops in her head and she points at Ig. She doesn’t say anything but her eyes freeze Ig in place—exactly what she wants. She leaves and messes in the kitchen, then comes back with a vial. Cicero tries leaping for her but my grip pulls him back.

“It already happened,” I say above a whimper.

He brings in his lips and bites down. Ig’s screams flood out. She flails, resisting her until Mother punches Ig’s gut, and she curls up. She grabs Ig’s hair. The vial cracks against her teeth and pinches her mouth between it and bone. Liquid stings her tongue—bitter and hot. Mother clamps her jaw shut and pinches her nose. Lungs burn for air. Ig kicks and swings. Her cries moan out, stifled as hope of living one more second.

Mother yells in her ear, “SWALLOW IT!”

Flames lick Ig’s throat but she already feels death. Ig thought she was fireproof but the burn is different. Poison is different.

Mother lets her go. She gags and coughs and gasps. Stale, wooden air refreshes her but with the cost of a new fear: what happens next.

“Now you’ll serve a greater purpose,” she says, heaving. “They said you were strong. You and Seben were to make excellent livestock.”

Ig holds her throat. Seben’s cries encircle her. Ig looks in the broken glass from the wardrobe and sees the look just before he dies, the look before Aerin never looks at her again, and her helpless cries when Mother does nothing when she says please. Ig feels how wet the mud was, seeping into her dress. How the rain never cleansed the village. Not the snow nor the wind ever cured this place for her sake. Our sake. And now the one glimmer of hope boils in the pit of her stomach with the poison she swallowed. But a new way out of hell rests behind her teeth, the rest of the poison she didn’t swallow.

Ig spits and it sprays into Mother’s eyes. Mother gasps first, then panics, and digs at her face.

_Get up, get up, get up._

Something holds Ig back from standing. She’s weakened, like her legs aren’t her own, new, and tired. She yells at myself and it works. Ig runs out toward Cicero and I, but she stops. She blinks to try and get something out of her eyes. She rubs them. She sees images, people she doesn’t know staring at her, and then a veil falls, and she swats at it before going downstairs. She slips on the last step and catches herself on the wall.

“Did she see us?” Cicero asks.

“I didn’t see us,” I say. “I saw others.”

We follow me down, where Ig’s frozen staring into the pantry. She grabs a knife.

“Get back!”

“What is it?” Cicero asks.

I exhale.

Mother manages to find her way down, eyes reddened, face splotchy. She squints, fumbles around, arms stretched out, calling my name, then calling me other names.

Blue auras of people I know stare at Ig.

_You can see us_, they whisper.

“Go away!” Ig shrieks.

_Mother…Mother…_

They moan and gather into the kitchen, pouring ethereal mist, vacant images of who they once were. Ig has nowhere to go but out the front, where the neighbors will see, or out the back toward the garden, but also the barn. Either way, they’ll see.

“Stay back!”

Mother grabs Ig. She screams and the blade stabs flesh. Mother gasps. It’s stuck in her side.

_Sweet Mother…_

She drops, arms trembling, and holding the hilt. Ig doesn’t let her take it.

“Ma!” Ig cries.

Ig holds it in her side. She knows if it leaves the blood pours out. If she twists, Mother’ll scream. She wonders if it’s different when she does both. A blanket of calm takes over.

_Sweet Mother…_

She grabs at Ig’s clothes. Mother’s nails dig into her shoulders but she doesn’t feel pain. She feels release. A tingling chill casts over as Mother pleads for her help.

“Stop…” she gurgles.

When life is in my hands the control brings me a peace and within the choice I can justify every mean she meant for me. The ghosts encompass Ig, benign, hovering. A phalanx of blue and white faces so familiar they’re on the tip of her mind, then it clicks, and it’s clear. Two stand out the most. Aerin’s parents. They went to Markarth and never came back.

Never came back whole.

Ig thinks back to Brelinda, the alchemist whore and her so-called patients. The poisons disguised as potions. The poison she ingested. But something’s wrong if I’m hallucinating now. She recalls the meat Mother prepared and the times she thanked her for something so delicious, and so sweet. Nausea hits both of us. Ig pries Mother off her and stumbles away, any way, and out the door where the night greets us as we follow close, and the crisp air is the only healing ever done here.

“Igniri?”

Ig ignores the voice. She has to see Father. We have to see. We have to make sense but everything’s dizzy.

“Iggy!”

I wave away the hallucination. A dark elf stands in the road, hooded like he’s something mysterious. Ig runs to the barn, wavering from the world tipping left and right. Father’s in there with Brelinda. I stand in the open doors with Ig. A dozen candles and a lamp illuminate the far end, where he rests, and she jumps up from her chair, startled. He’s sleeping in his human state.

“K-Kuvlod…” The whore insists.

“Hm?” He grunts.

He doesn’t open his eyes but he sniffs me out.

“Still alive?” He growls. “So am I.”

Ig clenches her fists. It’s no use talking to him. Mother didn’t listen. She tried to kill me. Father didn’t listen. Tried to kill me. No use talking to anyone. How loud the cries, no one hears me. No one heard Seben, no one heard me. And if Ig makes them cry instead, who will hear them, if any?

Father sits up from his cot and holds his arm. The shoulder’s almost healed. I wouldn’t have known then what it was; it’s a genetic health regeneration some animals have, like starfish. It looks half-healed already.

He lies back. “Finish me off, then.”

Ig grips the muddied fabric of her dress, anything to alleviate the rattlings nerves. I don’t know what I was looking for now. Maybe some good left in my family. He’s not bad, he’s just cursed. A werewolf by unfortunate circumstance. Someone who can’t control himself. That he’s sorry.

When he notices he’s still alive he only bends his neck to see. “She finally got you, didn’t she? Like I told her to. Good. Well, if you don’t kill me now, you’ll be dead soon, so I won’t have to waste my tastebuds on your ash face.”

Brelinda hisses, “Kuvlod. It should have worked, but—”

“Did the poison work or not!?” He snaps.

“Something’s wrong. She shouldn’t be standing here. At all.”

“Great. Sigyn couldn’t even kill her right, much less make her useful.” He doesn’t glance at Ig. “I voted you a hunter, be a part of the pack, but she thought you’d be better rebalancing the populace. Turn you into the next Brelinda. Turns out, you’re no good either way.” 

Ig’s chin trembles, holding back everything. The sobs, the screams, the whys and hows, and how-dare-yous. I almost forget I’m not that child anymore. Ig’s blood courses through her and I feel it in me, like bugs crawling over my skin. Every hair stands on end and Ig fights herself from lunging at him. She’s only nine. Little mer against the largest Nord, unthinkable. Without the knife Ig can do nothing. I am nothing. I’m just a kid stripped of being a child, and no one left to fight for but myself.

A forge pours fire into my chest and down to my gut. The barn could have collapsed on me and it wouldn’t have hurt as much as realizing I am utterly alone and unwanted.

All the times he taught me how to use a bow and how to dress a deer. When he took me to Markarth, or made me bale hay because he said I would be strong. I pleased him by trying my best, doing what I was told, because that was the only way I could spend time with a father I thought loved me. Ig examines her arms. Scrawny things. Mine have grown longer but just the same brittle sticks in tangent with how I used to feel inside, until I understood that the heat of a broken heart could be as deadly outside as in.

Gray skin crackles orange. Ig’s fingertips glow. I imagine my eyes do too, but Cicero corrects me. They remain red, brighter than usual, with dim embers behind them, as if my mind is alight. The whore tells me to back away. Ig draws closer. Her poison didn’t work, saving my father won’t either.

“Where’s Aerin?” Ig says airily.

He winces and holds his side tighter. Sweat beads down his face and into his beard. I bet he wants to transform and can’t. He strains himself, then goes for something beside the bed. I’m not quick enough. He slashes Ig with a trowel. It tears skin and strikes bone. Her jaw throbs and eyes water but she holds the tears. I hold the memories, the lies, the truths. This may be the eye of the storm, but a storm does not control me. When he swings it’s his last time. And the barn burns so hot there is no shadow. There is nothing but the color of how my dress could have been on the day I could’ve married Seben.

Cicero and I stand in the blank space until I recall the place I awake from my fire sleep. It’s a lot like coming out of a dream. The euphoria’s there, as if something happened, but you know it didn’t, but it did. I breathe in the heavy, burnt air. I frown at myself, to see me in the same road, with the same problem, and the same questions unanswered. But, at least I was safe.

“You cooked the cannibals,” Cicero snorts.

“And everything in a mile,” I grin.

I see the possibilities of Raldbthar cross his thoughts.

The three of us walk out of the barn, and into the barbecue. Mehrunes Dagon couldn’t have asked for better. As the fires rise from rooftops, ash and heat make the last of the stars dance before they’re blackened out. I didn’t know how far my power reached until I stood where Seben’s body was, a scorched leftover lying beside what was a lake, now a giant white plume. I tried to pick up his bones, but they still smoked, so I had to leave him behind.

I assure Cicero I was relieved more than sad in the retribution. An entire village that lived on making others suffer under their control, and willingly submitting to the insanity, knowing they’d have to pay a horrible price for no excusable reason. All the people had some form of guilt or need to be punished for my parents to take over. I helped relieve their pain. I saved them by cleansing fire. There’d be no more secrets, no more victims, and I grew up faster than the adults, having learned nearly all valuable lessons in one go. I felt equal to them, almost, but the less they took me seriously, the more haughty I got. I knew more and when they failed to notice that the sarcasm broke free. My careless demeanor shielded me from idiocy, because even though I went through all that pain, I was still treated like a child.

Cicero skims his fingers up my arm when I stop talking to him on the bed. I smell breakfast and I know it’s time to go. The sanctuary will be awake and full of moving, walking people, who might just walk right in. And though he has barricaded us in a maze, it’d be good to move, or at least get water for my dry throat.

“The name of your town,” Cicero says. “Blodblomyr, named after the red mountain flowers?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s gone.”

“I’ve heard of you in hushed tales, Banshee of Blodblomyr. They do not exaggerate but…” He tucks a loose strand behind my ear. “…they do not know your heart.”

“You’re the only one who probably does. So…you don’t think I’m crazy. But I needed you to know what makes me me. In case you wanted to make a run for it now.”

“I know your mind, Listener. You let me there. But I have yet to know your heart.” His honeyed eyes catch a light from the doorway as his hand draws across my bosom, and rests there. "I plan to stick around to find out."

“Is there a rule or something that says we can’t…be together?”

“If it’s not in the tenets, it’s free to play, however, we know Astrid, don’t we?”

“Something about her is wrong.”

“Therefore the something with us must remain secret.”

“Or else she could use it against us.”

He points to his temple. “Mind.”

“I have to see her. I can’t sit on the Night Mother’s wishes forever.”

“Such an upside-down world. The Listener going to the nobody for orders.”

“You above all people know this: no one gives me orders unless I want them to.”

“So what are you doing to do?”

“We’re going tomb raiding.”

Cicero examines me as I stand, retying my waist.

“I’d feel dreadfully overdressed if you’re going in that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 18 chapters in the making to get Igniri's past all out of the way. No secrets anymore, right?
> 
> Right?


	19. Just Out of Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri and Cicero kill a bard, some bandits, and a few unspoken puns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus for waiting so long for the last chapter! Find the puns!

Cicero splits the lute over his knee and it splinters apart. I try to pull my arrow out of the orc’s mouth but it’s hooked in tight, so I leave him in the chair, and Cicero tosses lute pieces at him before we walk out the room, with no one the wiser except maybe in a couple days. No one seems to care we came looking for Lurbuk. It helps Cicero resembles someone who could be from the bard college. It’s me they cast a second glance.

We leave Moorside Inn after I buy all the cheese I smelled coming into the place.

“Here,” I offer a small piece. “Jonna hand makes it here in town.”

“For me? Oh thank you, mistress, but I’m not in the mood for cheese.” He takes it anyway. “I’ll save it for later.”

I’m thankful he keeps it. I’m surprised he doesn’t make a face when he wraps it in a small cloth and tucks it away in his belt pouch. The owner makes the most pungent cheese in Skyrim, leaning towards the pervasive. Once you get over the smell, the taste is like creamed earth and berries, but he may never get over it, and that’s what I’m counting on. It’s my way of never losing Cicero again.

Morthal sits in water giants and dragons once pissed in and it smells like it too. Their only grace is the chill off the snow that masks what could be putrid if summerever hit this place. Nirnroot sings nearby, hidden by the T-shaped boardwalk that creaks under our boots as we leave.

“A pity you couldn’t convince Astrid to go forth on that Amaund character,” Cicero says, “Although I rather missed these business errands.”

A destroyed house catches my attention before I quickly look the other way, and the apothecary conquers my focus. I must be such a hypocrite, to have been so paranoid by my first meeting with Astrid to become my mother, insistent that I needed every possible potion known to mer to save me. I hop off the walkway and rummage through my bag until it hands me the vials one at a time. Cicero stands above as I chuck them into the water, absentminded of trashing nature. No one cares about Morthal. If they did, they wouldn’t go to Markarth for their business errands. They could’ve taken their paid-for daughter here to see that pretty vampire, maybe play in the water with the other kids, because there weren’t any kids in Markarth. They were working in the mines with their miner parents. And their miner parents would stare with their blackened faces wondering what a Dunmer girl was doing with a Nord meat seller. She’s probably a dumb mer girl who got snatched by savage Nords who helped them with their business errands up until they broke her!

“Iggy-Iggy-Iggy!” Cicero grabs my throwing arm.

I release the potion anyway. It smashes against the rocks behind him. Purple liquid spills, turning red before it dilutes into the water, and vanishes.

Cicero is blurs of flesh and cloth as I seek meaning in the contaminated stream, huffing from an anger rightfully brewed, and as broken as glass uncarried by the stagnant water. A vial tumbles off the walkway and falls into a bush. Another rolls back and forth until it loses momentum and finds a stopping point in a crack between planks. Red substance trickles down tree bark. Another drips smoke on a house’s side.

“I have horrible aim,” I say, but I learn to retarget what matters, and Cicero the blur turns sharp as his blade.

“On the contrary, my Listener. It is a work of art. Tell Cicero what’s wrong.”

“It’s…” I gather my bag and find an easy trail back to the carriageman. “…Astrid. She said she’d do my hair.” I twirl a strand. “It gets in my face a lot. I haven’t had the motivation to do it myself.”

“Oh,” he says. “Would you like to wear my hat?”

He grabs for it.

“No!”

He stops. I stop at the foot of the slope just before the carriage.

I bite my lip. “I mean, no, thank you.”

“I could braid your hair if you like.”

“You. Braid hair.”

“Oh absolutely, Listener! Any time.” He grins. “Smell that? It is not the cheese.”

I thought he caught on early, so I accept defeat, and tell him, “I’m sorry, I’m still a little out of sorts.”

“Cicero doesn’t blame you one bit. It took you all night to tell me your bleakest, blackest secrets. And now they’re fresh in your head.” He claps. “I know what you need. Something to take your mind off it instead. A violent spree, perhaps?”

I don’t hear him say “or.” I want to believe Cicero, however things I hide from will find me eventually. I have to remind myself that my dead shadows are what they are, but shadows eat the light, and I’ve been feeling more weary the longer they cling to me. Cicero, my colors, I cannot let my shadows take him too.

“Up for a detour?” I say.

I realize I had miscalculated the distance, and my fitness tolerance, when I begin panting next to the man who has yet to break a sweat. In every unfairness, his grin gets wider the longer we walk, and his mouth chattier the higher the elevation. Not every day I splurge on horses; it should have been today, but ever since last night I feel offward—awkward. Off? You know what I mean. We had traveled southwest several miles before my trudging brought about a second wind and I catch up to Cicero who had waited for me.

“Sorry,” I huff. “It’s been a while…since I walked this far…used to carriages.”

Cicero beams. “Not to worry, Listener! Cicero will have you in tip top shape with all the exercise we’ll get together.”

I want to kiss him. I also want to throw up.

Years tacked on new landmarks and they alienate me from the land I thought I knew. Only a few I recognize are left.

“This is it,” I say and wait for Cicero on the hilltop, who’s fishing a pebble out of his boot.

In those few seconds, the sun escapes the stratum of clouds, turning the land deep amber, and the Keeper’s skin as rich as his eyes, and hair ablaze; when he’s to me, the sun begins its decline behind the western mountains, and I watch the line of light draw up his face until the twilight blue shades the rest. I align with him after I find my breath, and embrace the land I’ve avoided for eighteen years. Outcasted aside the southern mountain range is a crab shack, gifted a waterfall for companionship by gods who washed away all evidence the town existed. Blodblomyr, once aptly named, now the fields are bare of any red flower that holds the old vibrance of dark elves. What ash was left had sprung new grass, though the forest has been cut back to the snow near Morthal. Cracks in the mountains suggest the gods helped Markarth resolve the consequences of my temper with renewal. A wildfire nurses the land, water its medicine, and it’s done well for itself, if I had believed it was all nature. But I know Ulfric. My town would have been a stain in Nord history if he had not dealt with it quickly. And so there is nothing left but a shack, and the trickling stream which runs into the lake that I see clearer now with the woods gone.

“We’re here already?” He unfolds his map.

“Yeah.”

“Cicero heard you clear as day when we started out. You’re from the Reach.”

“Yeah?” I strain.

“But this is Hjal River…and this is all Hjaalmarch.” He points, then circles his finger around. “Over here is The Reach.”

I snatch the map and think about ripping it to pieces but I gloss over it, triangulating the smaller towns to mine. “Gods, you Imperials think you know everything.”

“Easy, Listener, I’m just reading what’s given to me.” I push it back into him. “Sithis knows you might find Cicero attractive that I am a man who also asks for directions.” He grins at my stink-eye as he neatly folds the map away. “And follows them.”

He stares long enough that I am glad my dark skin hides the flush.

Cicero clears his throat with a chuckle. “So, you lived here. This must be the stream you played in.”

“Yes. Over there in the flat areas. Here was the barn, the apothecary on that side, our field here…” In the distance, the stream pours into a pool. “That wasn’t there before.” The land’s fallen apart, leaving a short cliff over the water where my house used to be, but something else stands there in the twilight instead.

“What was not there where?”

“Th—the water. The everything. That. What is that?” I run along the edge until the hill merges with the land below and I glimpse the largest waterfall ever coming from the rocky hillside north of Rorikstead. “What.” And standing atop the history of my childhood is a camp, protected by sharpened log walls, and guards posted at openings. “What.”

“Say again?” Cicero jests.

Nerves sizzle. I watch a torch held by a shadow disappear behind the wall. Bandits likely, by their armor’s silhouette, and the camp’s anatomy. Forsworn would be more in the mountains and occupying whatever is left; they don’t build; they burrow. Bandits take; they’re smart too because this was the control point. Cicero’s map proved it. My parents weren’t just merchants; they were enterprisers, their claws deep in Rorikstead, Dragon Bridge, and Karthwasten. I never cared to look at maps because all I’d see was the emptiness. A vast area mowed over by rage and yet somehow it still functions. The towns survived, and it’s by some miracle they did. Only now it’s not my parents the towns have to deal with. Twilight’s fallen to sleep and I’m wired to the touch, fists clenched, teeth biting my cheek, and eyes dry from staring I need to blink.

“That’s where it was. They built on top of it. My house.”

“Where’d they get the wood?” Cicero says.

“No one’s supposed to live here. Everyone’s supposed to be dead.”

I curl my lip. My breath’s noisy so I drop my jaw. Each exhale deepens, easier to breathe, but I can’t get my lungs full enough to satisfy. I flex my hands, knuckles crackling.

Cicero pulls out his dagger. “You, me, a violent spree?”

I grab my bow and ready the first arrow. I close the space halfway to the camp and shrink myself beside a bush, waiting for the torch’s return. I count two up top on an unseen bridge between watchtowers. They’ve been here a while. They won’t expect us, or they’re confident they’ll win.

Orange illuminates the wall, the bowstring stretches taut along my ear. The torch outlines a lightly armored male and catches the white in his eye when he looks my way. Pewf. Arrow releases and eye material bursts. He falls and the torch rolls out of his hand, into a a groove of dirt. Cicero runs in and slinks along the wall. He picks up the torch and gleefully mimics throwing it over. Maybe he thinks that’ll start a fire.

Burn it all down, he’s thinking. I shake my head as vivaciously as I can to clue him in. He copies me, slower and confused. I do it again. He does it again, then frowns, slumps shoulders, and drops the torch by his feet, where a bush is.

Flames catch the dry leaves and Cicero jumps out of the way, into the opening where the guard stood.

“What was that?” someone inside calls out.

I notch an arrow and arc around while Cicero finds darker shadows. Bandits are smart in setting up positions, but stupid with protocol. Once one of them goes down, they investigate the kill zone, and eventually become a pile of corpses. That’s how it’s been before. Just wait and shoot.

The fire spreads and in seconds the field is alight, and my cover’s blown. I run to Cicero who’s against the wall. An archer sees me and shimmies over with his bow aimed. Cicero slinks up behind and wraps an arm under his chin, and stabs him in the meat between neck and shoulder. He tosses me something and it hits the ground. It glints in the fire. Another dagger. I pick it up.

“Give it a try! It’s quite cathartic!” He sings, skipping into the camp, and disappearing.

Ice spikes fling across and Cicero squeals. Bright blue singe marks resonate along the wall. I run in, heart racing, screaming his name in my head. New energy shoots up. The mage faces Cicero but not me. I squeeze the blade in my hand and run up and into the back. The point sticks and hits bone. I pull out and stab again in their side when they try to turn. Cicero finishes them across their neck. Blood spurts everywhere. The mage slumps over, holding their wounds until their soul leaves them.

Speckles of red lie across Cicero’s face. I wipe the lone spot on his cheek and completely miss the large smear below it. He looks me over, and does the same, then pokes me twice in the head, and draws a curve from cheek to cheek. He wiggles his fingers—they’re soaked in blood.

“You finally show!” A man yells.

Cicero and I jerk our heads to the shack. At the end of the curved site, passed the tents, tables, and dead people, a larger, more battle-ready orc steps out of hiding with a battle axe.

“Ho, ho, ho,” Cicero laughs, “he’s a big one.”

I step closer.

“This is Ulfric’s land now,” the orc says, moving towards me. “I will be greatly rewarded for bringing you in, intact, or otherwise.”

I step a little closer and to the left.

“You can’t escape your fate, little elf. This is the end for you.”

“Oh yeah?” I pull out my bow. “**FUS RO DAH**!”

He stumbles back with tables and stools flying, and his heavy armor fails him, adding to the force when he falls back at last, and is impaled on the broken log inclined conveniently like a giant’s toothpick. It would not have been as helpful had I moved to the right. I jump across the mess, a waterbug skittering over the surface. I aim my arrow and let it fly, and stick him in the neck. Ulfric’s face masks the orc and my hand is its own, gripping the dagger, and swinging down until my arm’s exhausted.

The heat of battle floods inside me, and places that shouldn’t ache do, and places that should don’t. I stand up and teeter, light-headed, but alive, more alive than I’ve ever been to date. I tremble. I hold my arms briefly until my lip starts to tingle. I swallow the saliva gathering before I drool. I’m back where I started, surrounded by fire, bodies left to burn. The blood is new. So’s the company.

I lock my gaze onto him. He’s found a note in the shack and offers it to me.

“Looks like Ulfric’s hired the bandits,” he says.

I advance towards him. I feel blood drip down and stop at the corner of my mouth.

“It seems he won’t leave you alone,” he flaps the note about.

Cicero’s lips move over white teeth and a pink tongue. Imperial skin I need to taste.

“Does this mean you’ll Fus him up too, or however you say it? Hm? Listener?”

The note’s pinned between us before he can pull out his hand and catch his balance as I clamp my mouth to his. I walk him to the table inside, kicking over stuff in my way, with his warm tongue hard against mine, and aching heat rising between my legs. He moans when the edge finds his backside. He rotates me and heaves me on top, legs tight around his waist, and it doesn’t burden him down when he jumps up, and puts all his weight on me. He kisses hard, with passion that sticks from the blood, and smells metallic, Mother’s pantry. If the camp burns down with us in it, I’ll have died fucking the most perfect man in the world.

His mouth moves down my neck and I protest at first, until he begins to suck and bite and I latch on to pull him in. I take in his musk, pressing my nose into his shoulder. I seek a bed, something else to lie on if he’s to take off my clothes. A hatch set in the ground. I try to shake off the urgency to be ravaged. I let my hand do it, rapping him on the back to get his attention, although my mouth barrages him with kisses. He looks at me and I point.

“I’ve never seen that before,” I huff.

It’s true. If there was secret door I would have known about it because there was nothing much to do being lonely. Sometimes I’d stay under my bed and play, sometimes I’d fall asleep there too. My parent’s bed was bigger so I’d be under there more. Nothing in our floors ever had a door underground.

Cicero rests on his hands, focusing on relaxing his erection for a long while, before he hops off, and checks the lock, then finds the key on the bandit chief.

Fish barrels and sacks of grain stack on the pier in the center of a small cove. I try hard to remember where this could have been beneath feet, however the giant waterfall must have reshaped the land, and to the bandit’s advantage, they had many means of supply and escape. Stolen goods are thrown everywhere. Cicero finds a way to light the lanterns so we don’t rely on moonbeams penetrating the water entrance, which is shaped like a broken geode, and widens under the clear pool. A single boat’s moored, and in more functional condition than the hideaway itself. The water’s cool when I test it. Only the barrels emit any smell of the sea, which is fresher than the Cistern ever could be, but only if you like fish. A work table formed into an quartermaster’s office rests center deck, with a chair, one of the lamps, and a stack of books, scrolls, and quills.

“Sure looks like more food than the camp needs,” I say.

When Cicero doesn’t answer, I look for him. He drops his belt beside his gloves and slouched boots and my mouth falls open. He’s at the end of the dock by the boat. He unties the jacket, then the collar, and lets them fall. The rest sears into my mind with a new kind of burn, one that makes me forget the wildfire above. My eyes latch onto bare skin and muscle when the tunic comes off. I suck in a gasp.

“Don’t!” I yell when he goes for his cap and I race over to take his hands. “Don’t or you…”

I don’t have the proper excuse.

“Fret not, mistress. Here is your Cicero.”

He reaches for the hat.

“No!” I shout and try to stop him.

He dodges me and laughs. He hops onto the pylon and teases me. I lunge for him and he grabs around—my heart shoots into my throat in the fall, then cold water engulfs us. I push away and break the surface, gasping and irritated, yet slightly refreshed. I wipe my face. Something stings my eye and I wipe again. Agh. It won’t stop! I rub it and blink until it’s gone.

Cicero floats near, settled on amusing himself with my charades until I notice what’s different. His hat glides by and I do everything in my power to not look and ruin the fantasy that he’s only as colorful as his facade. But the more I resist the more I feel the pull and my gaze meets him.

The lamps catch his wet, dark hair in the net of the moonlight that stills my heart. A strand of red falls out of line and gets caught by his ear. He swims to me, into the shade of the dock. I find myself holding onto the rope securing the platform to the pylons when Cicero pins me against one, and my hungry hands find his back instead, and I wish I weren't covered in leather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, even the end of the chapter is a play on the chapter title.


	20. Silkun Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silkun is "Sil Kun" or "Heart Light," a pun in reference to what Igniri sees during this scene.

It’s hard to think that we’re alone under the decimation of what was an impulse, now simply reactive to the consequences of our chaos, which is satiating the need that has spanned over months, from the one time it was only us, standing as far as the length of a dragon—a body I would have if I had been born different—now so close the droplet falling from Cicero’s wet hair, comes down my breast, and catches in the rift of our skin. I thank Akatosh I’m not a dragon. How else could I share such primal endeavors expressing my need, as man and mer are the only ones capable of watching each other fuck. My breath heavies after pulling my mouth away from his to examine his intent and watch how he’ll pleasure me, with his tongue, or his hands again, but he’s already got me on the table, our clothes a blanket, and all the time on Nirn to enjoy unknown territory.

After he bites my lip, Cicero kisses me as if trying to knead our mouths together, with his hands below. I’m swollen and wet. He tests me and I moan for him—I know he likes to fill silence. His breath weaves in mine, his shave scratches my skin. Once he smelled like sweat and sun, now it’s sweet, and the musk more potent, drawing me in. I want him to be with every part of me. I want to tell him but I can’t stop kissing him. At last he holds himself and I feel the tip—I gasp. He checks if I’m okay. I ache and smolder and it’s not just all the fighting and walking to get here. It’s the time I spent in jail fermenting in trauma, the race to find him swimming in undulating hope, the fences I leapt, and powerless to the doubt grown from the people I killed in the days of not doing what I want to do, but another’s bidding all over. When we found each other again, we learned our boundaries and in the madness accepted our differences. And now, I have him and it’s my time. No mental prison to hold me back, just the little fact that I’ve never done this before, but I want to learn.

I want to look.

For a man who can walk in the cold in nothing but cloth, he has little fur aside from the auburn trail out of the forest, connected to a heart-shaped patch on his chest. I try not to think about the last man on top of me; I penalized his balls before he tried to kill me. With the circumstances upended, I wouldn’t mind if Cicero choked me, a gentle yet firm assurance that, yes, it is me, and he can do things to me that I won’t let anyone else do. Anything except leave.

Cicero enjoys the kill, the powerful rush of a clean stab, and a messy release, but I’m not his victim, and he’s careful to point that out with his slow embrace, and the tip of his erection teasing insertion. He wants me but how can he linger on unity’s precipice now? I do not have his patience. He uses my arousal to lubricate, a sensation amazingly unbearable that I whimper. Cicero leans in to kiss me but when I part my mouth he inches out of range. He brushes a finger over my lip, and his hunger grows in the ferocity of his brow. I squirm, sinking into the crude submission of the jester’s mercy. A hunter, more like, toying with his food. He’s done everything but devour me, a dish best enjoyed solitarily. A fitting end for the cannibal killer, eaten alive.

He savors me, I like to think he’s memorizing me, with the lanterns, the water, the rickety table. I take in the muscles defining his chest. His arms are angled and locked on each side of me now. A vein along his forearm resembles the stream in Blodblomyr. Another weaves faintly across his pelvis, a delicate texture against the carnal view of my open legs. I catch his heartbeat moving faster but as loud as my own. So loud it mutes my thoughts. I can’t cover my ears; it’ll amplify the my body noise and I don’t want that. I want him in all senses, even if I lose my words. It drums louder. Faster. I can’t wait anymore. He wins. I’ll talk.

“Fuck me,” I say.

Slower. Steadier. It beats in rhythm with mine. He needed me to say it; the noise comforts him.

“You’re the boss,” he says into my mouth, then kisses it.

“Not tonight,” I say.

He glides his hands down my splayed body until they stop around my hip.

Don’t make me beg.

I watch him watching me, and he must know, because he enters me with a thrust. I gape at him. It’s as if the sun buried itself into me. I grab Cicero’s face, shuddering, pulling him closer. I can’t figure out what to do with the feeling. Our eyes meet and he thrusts again. I gasp. He stops a moan with his tongue in my mouth and I melt, but he reminds me I’m solid. Slow, powerful, a battering ram but the doors are open. The table rocks. His hair falls about his face and it inspires me. I gather it in my fist. He moans when I pull it back. My breasts jump in motion that add to the billowing heat growing inside. I cannot describe it except that he’s inside me, physically connected at last. I feel sexier the more passionate he gets. It’s just us. No one else matters. He shifts my leg over his shoulder and grips my throat. Warmth rushes into my head and my insides squeeze. He makes a noise and pushes deeper. Beads of sweat form and his skin shines. I thank our clothes underneath me or my back would be torn and splintered. When he finds another angle with another intensity, I let out a shriek that excites him, and he tries me another way, and another.

“Hold on to me,” he says.

When I do, he stands up effortlessly to bounce me. Pleasure spans upward. My cheeks burn and lips swell. When I clamp onto him, breathing harder and harder, he stops to say, “Not yet, mistress,” and I groan.

He makes me let go and turns me about, then pins my arms so I’m helpless as he tastes the sheen on my neck before he grabs it again, reenters, and I moan louder, feeling my ass rebound each plunge. He shoves me down on the table and gropes my back, massaging, grabbing, squeezing, then slapping me. I squeak, squeal, and yelp. And when he’s had his fun, a severity falls on his face, and he wants that final sound. I can’t tell if he’s cum yet, but his eyes tell me he wants me to. Then Cicero cradles me, his panting steady in my ear, and he whispers things about me, private, honest but carnal things that make me feel wanted, and I lose myself.

We rock together, waves crashing against a helpless table. Warmth overcomes me and the room wavers. I hear the repeated slapping of our colliding skin, a far off beat in my delirium. I look elsewhere and either I’ve adjusted to the dark, or the lanterns have brightened.

I call his name but it’s a whimper.

Rays leak out of every spot of light and congregate around Cicero. The sun within will consume me. I try to call him again. Now I can’t speak. I hold him, staring at the prismatic tendrils licking his skin, growing brighter the more flushed I become, until I’m dazed, and blinded, and his light bursts around me, but I feel it in me, and I can do nothing but scream.

He seizes and pulls out abruptly, holding me I assume to support himself in case he falls from exhaustion. My yell dies off but the convulsions live until every part can’t or won’t move. I’ve lost feeling in my lips and my right eye ticks. I thought the left would tock, but it doesn’t spoil secrets. Ha.

It takes Cicero and I a long while before we decide the floor is our best option now.

I recall my echo and wonder if anyone was in range to hear. What a frightening, glorious thought, to know someone in the world heard me in my most vulnerable moment. In this second, I don’t care who knows it, not even Astrid.

Did I say Astrid? I meant Aerin.

But I suppose someone did hear. Someone was there. His sweaty back is stuck with dirt kicked over the planks, and I’m certain a rock dug into my back when I slumped to the refreshing fish trodden path. It smells like a trout had to pee and lost its way but I’ve lost all will to move.

Cicero traces the markings on my cheek, but he doesn’t ask about them. Like I don’t ask how he knows all those positions he me put in. It could be that he grew up in a brothel. Cyrodill is wrought with city life I know little of. Or on his travels he met pirates, maybe some sailors. I hear they’re perverts.

“You don’t like to lead,” he says out of an oblivion gate.

I know what he means and I don’t want to think about it, but it happens, and the aftereffects of the orgasm fade.

I ask him, “Is the question really ‘Do I want to be Listener?’”

“Do you?” He props his head.

“No one should follow me if they think it’ll better themselves.”

“Because of what happened?”

“Because I’m not a leader.” I find the ceiling easier to look at. “I’m the last person that should hold the reins to anything.”

“Yet the Night Mother chose you.”

“I didn’t want to be chosen.” I pick at a floorboard.

“That’s the perfect reason.”

A splinter comes off in my fingers. “I didn’t want to be guildmistress either.”

“Guild? Thieves Guild? I thought that armor looked familiar. They made you _their_ mistress? Shock and jealousy, Cicero is struck.”

“I left. Being their leader was all about money. A brief call to adventure and no one interested in you to share it. Well, no one interesting enough to be interested in me.”

“You flatter Cicero, but I haven’t forgotten what you said. You left. Does that mean if the Dark Brotherhood doesn’t satiate you, you’ll leave the brotherhood? You’ll leave Cicero?”

“You’re more than the Keeper, Cicero. I will never leave you. And if that means I have to put up with Ass-trid, I will. Of course, it would be a lot simpler to just kill them all, and have the sanctuary to ourselves. But ‘wrath of Sithis’ and all that.”

Cicero howls. It’s so infectious that I eventually giggle, no urge to laugh other than because he is. His colors incite me to do things I never thought to. Laugh is one. Sex until we flop, another. Becoming Listener, tasked to do the bidding of another daedra. I rest on my hands, pondering the recent events, and how we’ll deal with the sanctuary when we return. Astrid will be pissed no matter when we get there, but it’s best to get it over with, so they can move on. But no matter what orders she’ll have for me, the underlying truth is that I am the one the gods choose. Who does Astrid have? A husband who doesn’t find me all that bad. What does she have to keep up appearances for the brotherhood? Rumors.

I have two voices in my head now.

One of them is urging me to jump Cicero for a second round and I don’t hear the other voice protesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song: "I Think We're Alone Now" (Epic Trailer Version) Hidden Citizens


	21. No Flying Figs Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Igniri and Cicero talk on their way back to sanctuary and learn each other's weapons. Astrid's beginning to smell like her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR VACATION BREAK. I would've told y'all but it was a surprise vacation and I couldn't tell anyone until after the fact. Got to surprise my mom with a visit and she loved it, then I surprised her with MORE family she loves that came to visit, and she was floored. So it was a good plan all orchestrated by me. Whew! And while I was away, I managed to write this chapter in pieces. Finished it when I came home. So here we are! Thank you so much for waiting.

If the Dark Brotherhood doesn’t satiate, would I leave Cicero?

It’s not the words I repeat in my head but the waver in his voice, and the worry that I’d say yes. We are new; I couldn’t tell him outright. I was as careful as I could be. My truth is I’ll never want to leave Cicero. My other truth is if I have to leave the Brotherhood, it’s not because of him. But I know my patterns. I left Blodblomyr, the guild, my call to be Dragonborn. And those are just my major life points. I’ve left bandit camps, orc strongholds, dunmer refuges, and even played along with sailors for a time. I never stay in one place long because I never felt like I belonged. Now if Cicero could be an anchor, would I feel obliged to stay, or have no desire to leave? Happiness rushes beneath and emerges another grin. I have surrendered to it all. It’s hard to look passed the hormones especially when I don’t give a damn. If I had my way, Cicero and I would still be in the cave. Give it a week and maybe I could think clearly. But now, all I know is that he keeps glancing over at me, and catching me in a smile. We’ve been riding carriage from Morthal, never again on foot with the clown of limitless stamina. A lucky break considering there is no carriage there, but my Falkreath driver had stayed the night, and was heading out about the time we arrived. It was easy to leave the smuggler’s cave after the fire. We took the boat out just in case it still burned above us, and also to see where the cave led. For a while we sat in the middle of the water, a sized lake created by the gigantic waterfall from the hillside. The stream I once knew that ribboned through my old town had widened here, and must have grown wilder over the years with the new landscape. I couldn’t understand it, except I know some childhood memories are broken. You can remember some things but not all and they fade the older you get, leaving only what was most traumatic, or inspirational. I would have remembered the waterfall. It bites at me not knowing why I don’t. Then again, I don’t about this cave, yet my parents had it underneath their house. The last embers waned in the smoke of fallen wood where I killed the bandit chief. I hoped it would be a message to Ulfric and any other bandits who try to screw with me because now there are two crazies.

We must look like strange newly weds to the driver. Still not snuggled together, shy, but one part of us has to touch the other, so I’ve clicked his boot to mine. I’ve also been tucking my hair behind my ear every time it falls. Pigheaded strands.

“Where’s your partner of poultry?” Cicero asks.

I hadn’t thought. I expect things to go away after a while, and I had really wanted the chicken gone, but then when I started to like it, it went away. Up and left somewhere when I didn’t need her. It would have been funny having a chicken stare at me while Cicero and I did it. Animals stare a lot, oblivious to the sins of merkind. Sex is sex. I wanted to think like them, but the way we were, sex is not just about making more people. With Cicero it’s an existential adventure.

“Left, I guess,” I say.

I try not to think about things that leave me after I learn to love them.

He sighs with flair. “The Dark Brotherhood has a horrendous time keeping pets. I hope the spider didn’t eat her.”

I swallow to scratch the itch in my throat.

“You’ve lived in Skyrim all your life. Are the summers as cold?” He straightens his jerkin. “Is that why everyone dresses so odd?” And crosses his curled boots.

I pass up smiling. “You’d look cute in fur.”

“If I kill a very hairy man, you’ll help me skin him to find out?”

The driver shifts in his seat, and readjusts the axe on his belt. Almost all the drivers recognize me and their loaded coin purses remind them not to mess with me, but back in the day I almost scared the one in Riften when I was chased by giant spiders and a bear. Long before the guild; I had just acquired a new bow and the string snapped. Thankfully, him and the guards saved me. Sigaar still works as a carriageman, but with stronger purpose. I’ve yet to see what this driver can do.

There’s my smile again. “I know just the one.”

“Is it a Stormcloak? I see you know many.” He pulls at his glove. “Many, many Stormies. When are we going to kill them?”

“All of them?”

“Yes!” He squeaks.

“Not any time in the nearest, futurest, ever.”

“But Listener, they’re after you, and they nearly turned us into spiny land urchins.”

“Yes. It was quite the event.”

Cicero measures me up, then he gasps so loud my skin jumps. “You like it! You love the chase!”

I’m not Hircine, or a follower of Hircine, for obvious reasons I’ve opened up about.

“It gives me something to do,” I respond dwemerishly.

“But it’s more than that. So much more! I can tell from the way you came after me, hunted me to the depths of sanctuary.”

“I didn’t know you were an assassin.” I want to say I thought I’d never see you again, so I followed the face of someone that reminded me of my past, but that was not the kind of cheese I like.

“Knowing without knowing. You became a part of my world regardless. A fate intended. Perhaps something will befall the Stormcloaks.”

“Perhaps.”

“I wonder what that would be. No wait. Don’t tell me! I want to be just as surprised as you.”

We spent the day’s ride talking about absolutely nothing. Fantasies of landing on Nirn’s moons, where do bad people go when even the Daedra don’t want them, and if it’s possible to lick your elbow without chopping off your arm. I warmed to the idea of knife fighting, and Cicero showed me some techniques. He had far too much fun pretending to slice open our carriageman’s throat, so I stuffed more money in his pouch to not kick us off. Then it was Cicero’s turn for my lessons.

“Oh, the Keeper becomes the Listener! And it’s not even Jester’s Day. We’re doing this on the carriage? While we’re still moving?”

“Learn hard aim easy,” I had said.

I didn’t care about losing arrows. I gave him some starting ones I had back when the Falmer thought they could kill a shadow. Now I’m thinking everything to them is a shadow. Huh.

I stood Cicero with my bow but he had already known how to notch the arrow so I suspected he didn’t need teaching. I gave him what I wanted, which was my cheek to his, his body against mine, and careful, low tones breathed into his ear. He loosed his first arrow and it sparked against a boulder.

“Ooh! I see why you like this so much.”

For a good hour he practiced with my bow. I had assured him if I needed to I’d make more arrows, but my bag had barrels upon barrels of arrows. I only brought out fifty or so. When we wanted to sit and rest our shoulders, Cicero brought out juggling balls, handstitched leather stuffed with rice. I’ve never had rice. He showed off his skills first. One, two, three in the air, then they circled seemlessly as he stared at nothing, but concentrated on all. He changed the height and lowered it into an eternity icon, then winked at me, fumbled a ball, and it almost fell in my lap. He caught it just in time, his face an inch from mine. I saw through the ruse when he grinned, and stole a kiss.

Yeah. I can myself sticking around.

After he showed me how to juggle, he encouraged me to fail. In the failing, my body learns what not to do, so it’ll remember what works. Much like archery. I trust my arm to angle itself with my wrist how it needs to go in order for whatever is on the end to die. My release is also memory. How I pull the string, notch the arrow, slip it against the bow, aim, stop breathing, and let go. It’s automatic. When I drop the ball, I find it funny, but I don’t laugh. Unpredictability amuses me and I keep doing it until I watch the trees change from scarce to dense pine.

I return the balls to him and sit.

“You know I’m running out of things to say,” he says as he puts them away.

“You?”

“Yes. I feel I only have a few, maybe thirty-six of things I really want to say. What should I do? Repeat myself? No, I need something to say that will last beyond time and space.”

“How about an epic song?”

“I’ve done songs before but an epic song! What to sing that goes on without repeating itself?”

“Well, if it’s a song, then it’s not really repeating yourself. You just keep singing the song because it has no end.”

“You, me, we agree. On so much and much more so.”

“Better get to writing.” I nod toward the curving path. “We’re almost there.”

Cicero mutters nonsensical verses while I make up excuses when Asstrid dares ask where we’ve been. I tip the driver again, triple my usual, and tap my nose with a deep stare before heading away from Falkreath. I hear motion ahead, a small animal that could have been a squirrel until I hear its guttural chatting. Cicero walks behind me, humming until the path opens to our hidden roost, and there lies a distressed beast, attacking the entrance. My minstrel finds inspiration as I storm the door, flustered and hot.“At the Black Door I see a chicken, scratching at it, trying to check in. There goes my elf to get her licks in, but Cicero already got his—” He rests at the cut-off. “Best not repeat that near children.”

I don’t try to chase the chicken down but I stop before it’s threatened, and scold it until Cicero rushes over, and tries to calm me.

“You stupid cutlet! Where the hell have you been?”

“How’d it get out?” Cicero asks.

“Probably the hole up top,” I mutter, then eyeball the hen, “But it’s too stupid to figure out how to go back inside!”

“Maybe it was waiting for us.”

I sneer. He’s frustrating when he almost makes sense. Chickens aren’t sheep. They’re smart and are known to manipulate in order to get what they want. It would know where the easy way is to get in, and if that’s so, it’s out here for a reason, and it’s either to acknowledge its return, or it wants something. Or worse, it doesn’t like Asstrid, and therefore brings it further to my good side.

“Saving itself from the pot,” I say. “Gabriella almost cooked it.”

“The hen’s been gone a long time. I wonder where it went.”

“There’s a song for ya.”

He beams and beckons me through the door first. The chicken chooses to stay outside, running away with an alarmed cluck. I should have taken that as my warning but for a Listener I don’t think I listen very well.

I had pondered our strategy for a while. If Cicero and I showed up together, it would help keep our story straight, and wouldn’t have to think so hard as to what exactly we’re lying about. If he snuck in, and appeared at the same time, or even a different day, it would be more suspicious than being obvious with our teamwork.

When we go inside, the Aerin of Ass Terd blocks the way into the first chamber, and permits herself to speak freely.

“Isn’t it the Keeper’s job to look after the Night Mother?”

I curl my toes so she doesn’t see me squirm, but I’ve already pinpointed my favorite spot to garrote her and watch her bleed out.

Cicero enunciates his displeasure. “A Keeper does more than preserve the body of our Lady. They preserve the history and uphold the rules of the Brotherhood. Our Listener has yet to be informed of her duties.” He pauses for effect. “And her leadership. As Cicero is the only Keeper, I found it my job to help.”

I intervene, “We finished my contracts. And Cicero learned the area better.”

“I did, I did!” Cicero cheers. “The fresh air and carnage worked wonders on my mood.”

But Aerin looks on, snapped by something he had said before I could try and bandage it, and you can’t bandage turmoil.

“I have no intention of leading if Aerin—”

“ASTRID!” she bellows, and tries to smile but it’s twisted, and her eyelids tick.

“Asstrid!” I’m cor-rec-ted. “Has another use for me.”

She massages her jowls. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, woman to woman.”

Cicero says he’ll be with the Night Mother and before he leaves, he slips a finger across my back, where only I would know, and I feel it enough through the leather that it tingles

“Things have been moving around here so fast I’m having difficulty wrapping my braids around it all. One of my duties as leader is making sure we’re secure, and safe within our walls. Cicero tried to kill you and you went out with him anyway, without telling anyone, and you seem okay with this. I’m not.”

“He was just doing his duties as well. He won’t try it again.”

“Not with you, but what about someone else?”

She still thinks Cicero is the psychopath. Between the two of us, he’s the lawful one.

I hint a warning. “If everyone is obeying the Tenets than no one has to worry.”

“That’s,” she swallows, “good to hear. My husband says you two are quite the team and handle yourselves well when things go wrong.” I snort. “Unorthodox, but well. I’ll need that for this next mission I’m sending you on.”

“Volunruud?”

“We need to find out what’s happening, with Sithis and the Night Mother and this Motierre.”

“Moatear.”

“That’s what I said. We’d be mad to ignore this order, if the Night Mother really did talk to you. We don’t need anymore madness here than Cicero’s already gave us.”

She tells me it’s a crypt in the northeast, and Almond Moatear should be waiting. I accept and make my rounds. I receive my payment from Nazir, and an increased respect with subtle praise. I wonder if any of them know who I am, and are just being polite in pretending. After confronting the haunting memories of childhood, Arnbjorn reminds me that not all werewolves are out to destroy everyone. But none of them are good, and all imprisoned to Hircine. Yet another god stringing us along. He asks to share an ale before I leave, so I slam one, take some figs Nazir shipped in, then toss three to Cicero who turns it into a juggling game as we exit. Round and round, side to side. He does it effortlessly even when I throw another fig at him. He switches to two in two hands, like jumping beans.

“Are we walking?” Cicero grins. “Or is it all up in the air?”

He tosses higher, two arcs with no end. If he gave them to me, I’d toss them into the air to watch them fall, but I’m relieved when he does it instead, high enough to get his belt pouch open as they drop in.

We clamber into the cart, and the driver, who was eating half a roasted leg before I threw money at him again, takes off toward the bitter cold northern mountains, and closer to my fate being stranded on that bridge, higher than any ball that can be thrown.


	22. Krent Nahlot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cicero and Iggy meet with a contact to the Brotherhood's ultimate contract. Chicken comes along. Now there's a dog. Part of "Silence Has Been Broken" quest.

[ ](http://fav.me/de41rk9)

Parts of my life I have to ignore in order to keep the vestiges of sanity intact. We’re on our way out of Falkreath and I’m staring out the back of the cart at the dog following us. I smell fresh bread and tea. I cringe. It’s the same breed and innocent disposition that tears my gaze back to Cicero who’s pulled out a journal and a thin cut of charcoal. He flips through the pages, humming as he goes, squeaks when he finds his place, and frowns before he concentrates. He writes left-handed, left to right on one side, then switches to his right on the other side. He’s careful not to smear and sticks blank paper between finished sheets. I try not to notice that he uses ink as well in smaller, more intricate handwriting. But those were further back in the journal. He also fills a page at the end, numbered notes. Ideas or plans of the day.

“Cicero apologizes for ignoring the Listener.” He shuts the book when we’re nearly there.

The chicken clucks. It’s nestled closest to the driver, furthest from the canine. I know some people have eaten dog before. I could make a dogken. Mother once stuffed all kinds of meat together into a stomach. Now that I’m honest with myself, I’m not sure if it was all human, but what tasted like sheep wasn’t bad. She’s also tied meats into themselves and it turned out tenderly sweet. Would need an oven and I don’t even carry one of those on me.

“Must’ve been important,” I say.

“It was.” He sends me a sharp eye and I believe him. “I haven’t been this busy sinceCyrodiil.” He shudders but I don’t feel the chill off the mountains.

We drop off the carriage early so as not to get his wheels stuck in the snow to make his way toward town. I thank him for the detour and he asks about the dog.

“Does it know you?” He chuckles and snaps the reins.

I turn around. It’s followed us the whole way. Something inside sinks from my throat to my gut. It walks up to us, panting, ears relaxed, as if I have done no wrong. Or maybe it knows. Its back will bristle. It’ll snarl and have its revenge for dogkind. I can kill one thousand mer and men but that one mutt…

The dog can go ahead. I don’t deserve life. Gods, tell Cicero I love him because it’s too early in our perfectly healthy relationship to set that emotional line. The password to my backpack is “get out of the fucking bag.”

It barks and Cicero laughs after I’ve jumped nearly out of my leathers.

“Maybe he likes chicken!” Cicero exclaims.

I don’t think that’s his desired flavor. When the chicken at last hops off the cart and makes a strange calling sound, I strangely know she means me to follow. I inch back and the dog wags its tail, then sniffs the fallen snow.

I still don’t trust it but I have a job I’d like to see if I can fuck up as bad as Ulfric. Cicero asks me how we’re going to go about it and I don’t answer. I’m about to meet another manbag whose name already sounds like it belongs to someone I had stolen aged cheddar off a naked woman surrounded by other tossers without them noticing because I was clothed. Amaund Motierre. Pretty certain there is a child crying for its mother because he had her killed so his marriage wouldn’t be stained. A lot is learned from a name.

“Is that your artful silence I can’t hear? The Listener shall listen, hm? Cicero likes this plan.” His lips twist into his coldbitten cheeks.

Cicero brings out my words because I know he’ll listen, but he’s right about this. Everyone else has had a turn with my giant ears, why not this guy?

It’s probably midday now but I can’t see the sun behind the thick sheets of gray. Not even its glowing aura can break through dismal Skyrim. Our boots (and paws) crunch as we walk into the crypt’s downward spiral. The chicken waits at the mouth, unphased by the dog who follows us down, then sits at the bottom.

Cicero offers to go in first. I close the door and cut off the last of the fresh air before I’m hit with mildew and mummification. It’s earthy with hints of flower oils and old cloth. I watch my footing on the descent. It’s a narrow hall aglow with torches. How anyone cut rock down here is beyond my understanding, but they’re carefully carved and smoothed for passage. Roots crawl over broken stone and uneven floor, veins of the tomb’s body. There’s a chamber and Cicero scouts the path to the left, then beckons me.

“Lots of corpses line the floor. Lots of killing, living more.”

Something catches my eye. A presence in the chamber I hadn’t felt before, now it’s colder, as if someone’s breached another doorway, but I didn’t hear anyone come in. I turn and see light blue glint in the hallway across the room, then vanish.

“Hello?”

“I’m here, Listener,” Cicero calls and backtracks to me.

“No, I thought I saw something.”

“You…” He cackles so loud it stings my ears and I clamp his mouth shut. “Sorry” is muffled in my glove, and I push him forward, not without checking back once or twice.

We step over piles of draugr. Fern reaches for the light but most are crushed by the bodies. I doubt the dead would ambush us this way, noting the posthumous stab wounds and lacerations. I trust Cicero’s fast enough if I can’t get to my bow in time. Another door leads to an enclosed room, where an Imperial guard, and a fancy robed man approach us.

“By the Almighty Divines,” Fancy says. “This Black Sacrament thing. It worked. Yet I had no idea they’d send me…” He looks as though he found us under his slipper. “Sithis’ grand elite.”

Flattery still gets you stabbed, Fancy Almond, but the knife will enter a less painful spot.

“I’ll state my business quickly.” He coughs in his fist. “For the real reason I’m speaking with you in this—”

“Quicker,” I say.

I don’t check how Cicero responds, but he’s quiet.

Fancy stirs in his robes. “What I ask is no small thing.” He fans down his muscle who hadn’t moved an inch except to smirk. “But you represent the Dark Brotherhood. This is what—”

“You don’t have to sell it just give me names,” I state.

“How dare—” he cuts himself off. “Rexus, calm down.” Rexus side-glances. “Give these to your _superior_.” He snaps his fingers at Rexus, who hands me a folded letter. It’s tea-dyed with an imprinted red wax seal. Rexus then gives me a golden amulet that I tuck away so I can rip open the letter to read.

Fancy Almond turns red and to see if he’ll explode, I jerk the paper taut, and clear my throat. Cicero reads over my shoulder, his chin notched in the collar bone.

“‘Most Esteemed Overseer,’” I mock his accent. “‘As was already communicated to your subordinate…’”

Cicero and I examine Fancy Almond’s reaction, then Cicero whistles away awareness that I might kill the contact outright. I continue reading and learn the devious plot has been in the making for a long time. I fold the letter and hand it to Cicero to read. He gasps and sputters and nearly chokes on laughter. I bet he got to the part about the chef, but I dare not look with the staredown I’m getting from Almond.

I summarize, “Kill the Emperor of Tamriel.”

He says, “That is correct.”

We took the job.

Chicken and Dog break away from each other’s stare when we leave the crypt. It had looked like a casual but serious talk, but mostly the chicken did a lot of clucking. The dog sniffs the ground again and raises its eyebrows.

“Shoo,” I wave at him.

Though I’m not invested in meaning it. Plans skitter behind my eyes, locked on the amulet with a red dragon’s eye jewel. It’s set in a diamond-shaped pendant with engraved symbols between directional points.

“Where have I seen that necklace before?” Cicero rubs his chin. “Someone at the sanctuary might know. Shall we go back to the pretender?”

“She doesn’t know shit.”

I offer the necklace to Cicero to put in his belt pouch. I want him to feel included, to carry only the things I know are important. If I give it to my bag, my helper might not want to give it back.

“Listener giving me such a pretty, pretty necklace. Is this what we do now? Give each other things?”

“I trust you.” And the only one in the world.

He makes a throaty, happy noise and stows the necklace. Pungent cheese wafts from his belt and the dog’s ears perk up. It sits politely waiting.

“I’ll guard it with my knife,” he says, eyeing the dog. “Eh…are you hungry?” He reaches for the pouch again.

Panic overcomes me. I rush to grab food before he gives away my Cicero detector. “I got it,” I say, and throw berries at it, then I get a cooked goat leg and throw that down too just in case.

“Geezmer Sneezer,” he says, “now we’ll never get rid of it.”

There are worse things.

“We need that amulet appraised. The dog will be a good companion on the way. And if it eats the chicken, a great one.”

“And the letter? We can’t do this by ourselves.”

“Sure we can, but will we? I don’t need a band of assassins after us.”

Cicero shudders with grin. “But it would be a thrill. Where do we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where does the chicken go? What is its plan? It's a long road to get to the truth. Whenever Cicero has time, he'll sketch ideas in his journal. If I come across more, I'll slip them into the pages, but that jester is a sneaky one.


	23. The Pessimist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iggy takes her gang to Riften, Cicero meets Delvin, Iggy and Cicero meet some drunk who's an awesome petsitter, and Astrid thinks she's got her way.

Delvin Mallory stares at the amulet I dropped on the table before his dinner plate, grilled salmon, leek medallions, and toasted bread with herbed butter. We had arrived in Riften after a two-day trek across Skyrim, and I learned Cicero and I don’t really sleep when travelling. I’ve gotten better at juggling but my life doesn’t show it, and I cooked him my favorite stew. We avoided the towns, Imerciless’ words still creeping when my mind is still, and of course the Stormcloak situation. But Riften is owned by the guild and its Black-Briar patrons. No one will get us. If I had been bored I would’ve taken on another bandit camp, but Cicero’s stories kept me in high spirits, even when I noticed the unwashed smell permeating my leathers, and now the stench of the Rataway.

“I’m gonna take you through the front entrance,” I had said. “In case you need to hide down here, you know what’s around.”

I didn’t want to take him through the back way in the graveyard because it was too quick. Down the ladder and surrounded by people; no chance to be alone with him for a while. Before we reached the Ragged Flagon, our journey’s scent—the crypt, camping near a giant’s fire, and the chilling air of the upcoming winter season—dampened in the piss hole of Riften’s mischievous. Last return I smelled like rose water and they practically jumped me like dog noses in asses. No one is sniffing our ass today. Incidentally, I left the dog and chicken at the inn. The owners were not happy to see me but remember that robed guy? He said he’d watch them.

Heaviness filled the air of the Flagon, all eyes on my scarlet shadow, though not once did he lose his huge grin even when Dolphin gave him a contemptuous once-over.

“You’re making friends all over,” he had said.

He turns my prize in hand and traces the markings. He glances back at Vex but his eyes lock on my armor. It’s new, it’s fitted, and not in the slightest guildmistress rate.

“This is an amulet of the Emperor’s Elder Council, specially crafted for each member. Worth a small fortune. Ain’t somethin’ you’d give up lightly.” He stands and sizes up to Cicero, which stiffens every other thief in the bar. “Not gonna tell the Brotherhood its business, but if you killed a member of the Elder Council—”

Cicero’s grin breaks into a toothy smile. “You’ll dance the Imperial Waltz with Cicero’s corpse? I would laugh myself to death for you to hasten the chance.”

Before Delvin gets a belly of knife, I say, “You want it?”

“Want it?” He turns and Cicero twirls to swipe an apple from the table, and he’s off to sit at the bar.

“I mean you could buy it from me, but that’s weird. I don’t need the money.”

“But I bet Astrid does.”

Cicero chooses my stool and Vekel offers a clean tankard. Cicero nods.

“Oh yes.” I sit before my legs go weak. “Right.”

“I’d love to take this off your hands.” Dolphin takes his chair again. “Here.” He writes up a letter, folds it, and sets it in my hand carefully. “A letter of credit, for any service or item I can provide, as per my standard arrangement with Astrid.”

“Standard, huh?” I put away the letter. “Guess we all have our secrets.”

“I guess so.” He makes it obvious he’s glancing back at the bar.

I fidget with the dinner knife before Mallory takes it to cut a portion of his dinner off for me. I refuse and he eats it.

“How do you know Astrid?” I ask,

He rolls his eyes between chews, then swallows. “There’s a tale I’ll never tell sober.”

“I need to know about her.”

“Ever try asking her?”

She doesn’t have a soft spot for me like he does.

“Remember Ivarstead?”

He stabs the air with eatery. “I didn’t ask questions then, I’m not asking them now.”

“And risk the interrogation of your fancy tastes.” I note the perfectly done medallions. “Thought you should know something.” I pause for effect and it works, as I don’t see him going for another bite until I continue. “I appreciated your help. I had a lot on my mind then.”

He finishes the salmon and starts on the bread. “You’ve changed.”

The texture on the chair is smooth, sanded recently. “How?”

“For one, that scowl on your face whenever you come in here didn’t greet us.” He stops me playing with the furnishings, and squeezes my hand. “But you look like you need some ale.”

It feels like an entire night has passed when I’ve loosened up Delvin’s lips so well they could fan Balimund’s forge. I laugh at almost anything he says, I slap his knee instead of mine. I twist one of the hair strands that’s usually annoying me the most and bite my lip when I smile. A rosy-cheeked Cicero smirks from my stool, and hasn’t moved from that spot until he’s exactly five rounds in. Mine? Only one, to get the ale breath, and fill my belly.

Cicero isn’t only good at juggling and cutting jugulars. While catching up with Mallory’s secrets, we moved our reunion to the bar with Vekel, where Cicero could switch out my drink for his without anyone knowing. If he didn’t like killing so much, he’d have made an excellent thief, and maybe I wouldn’t have left. Or maybe we would have left together. People like us can’t live in someone else’s routine. Perhaps in some way, I want to show Cicero there is more to life than Keeping. I’ve kept him away from the Night Mother long enough I think he’s gotten a taste for freedom. Hope dredges the bottom of my tankards again. And once Cicero cues me, I finish my last drink. Then he excuses himself to the inn and Delvin insists he stay the night here with new friends. He stumbles off his seat and embraces us with open arms, gives us kisses on our cheeks.

“Cicero must attend to the beasts,” he lets him down. “Before they form a band and take over the inn.”

It’s not soon enough when I get to break away. I set Delvin on a bed. The way he inhales the balled up shirt used as a pillow I’m betting it’s Vex’s. Wish I was gonna be around to witness that argument.

“There’s room for two,” he scoots over.

Senior members get a cove just outside the Ragged Flagon. Like a small barracks away from the other mer and men, including me, because for some reason the guildmistress’ bed need only a privacy wall. I suppose it’s a front for the Flagon. A way to keep away people from the Cistern, or if people find the Cistern, there’re still the senior members. Don’t keep all your Pine Thrush eggs in one nest, that sort of rule.

“I got a thing to take care of,” I slur. “You got a stamp like this?”

I pull out the opened letter and show him the broken wax seal. He tells me to check with Toni, but if not, it should be in one of my office drawers.

“Don’t leave me without saying goodbye again,” he says.

“I’ll need to keep the amulet a while, but I wanted you to know it’s yours.”

His eye lids droop and his breathing slows. “Of course it’s yours.” His jaw slacks before his last coherent words. “It’s always been.”

I make sure he doesn’t roll onto his back before I go to the Cistern, and dig through the office. Cold water drips on me and I mutter a curse at the damp ceiling. I pull out a drawer and in a mess of other forged stamps from jarls and probably neighboring countries, I find the matching seal. It’s the only stamp with gold etching in the handle; must be authentic. I find a stick of red wax andclear the desk of Brynjolf’s papers. Sapphire picks up one that rolled off toward her.

“Hey,” she says. “You’re with the Brotherhood now?” I scrape off the broken seal and refold the letter. “They don’t make that much coin.” I light a candle to start melting the wax onto the trifold. “Are you and Delvin…?”

“I need your help,” I tell her and it’s enough for me to concentrate on the stamp. She’s quiet when I cool the wax drippings, then I press the seal, and it’s as good as before. “Follow me.”

Dolphin wears a kiss on his cheek, in which he snores triumphantly as Sapphire wipes her mouth of my tinted lip balm.

“Why though?” she asks.

I bring over a bucket. “To keep the dream alive.” I drop it by the bed.

“I hope you find your happiness, Delvin.” And I leave Sapphire in charge of his health and a heavier coin purse.

Riften sunrises had kept me in the area longer than anyone’s company or coin. With the town set in a gilded forest, sunlight fills the eastern land as easily as rain supplies a pool, and my jester relishes the glow that turns his hair, and warms his skin.

“I almost didn’t think you knew what I was doing,” I say.

Cicero and I dangle our feet off the bridge, our backs to the canal as we watch the morning yawn through the mountains and carry over the rooftops. We hadn’t planned the spying, but en route I mentioned my need to know things, Cicero understood, and weaved an impromptu strategy.

“Overly flirtatious dialogue to a man who threatens your Keeper?” Cicero taps his nose.

“Still drunk?” I ask.

“A bit tipsy. That piss water is nothing compared to the wine I made while tending to Mother.”

“You made wine?”

“Oh, yes! Cicero had lots of time on hand, needed something to do, so found loads to do, including my ‘Special Tea.’”

I think of a red wine made from the berries along his travels, how he gathered them up, and mashed them with his feet. He must have had an alchemy store somewhere to help him bottle it, or maybe it was unfiltered, and left to sit in a cellar somewhere for months, like mead. I narrow the pairing dishes to beef, searing a roast, and rolling it in a pastry for that crunch. Something that took Cicero a long time to make needs a meal with equal attention to detail, a tediousness indulged by professionals. Something you’d find in the Imperial City, not out here where things are chunks or stews (no offense to my stew).

Cicero says, “You deserve more, far more than this place ever gave you. Don’t hate Cicero for it. I do like the view…on the outside.”

I nudge his boot. “Still glad you got to see it.”

He rests his head on the rail and it’s not the sunrise he’s looking at now. I can’t help but smile when the fondness pours in.

“What did you learn?” he asks.

I tell him about Vittoria Vici in Solitude, and her wedding. Details about the emperor’s elite guard and how the Penitus Oculatus use Imperial stations around Skyrim to travel.

“Then there’s the chef in hiding, but Delvin doesn’t have anything on him.”

“Anything on Asstrid?”

“Nothing I wanted to hear about but got an earful about their shared past.”

“Do you think she’s Aerin?”

“Hm?” But I heard him. I don’t know what to say, or don’t want to say.

“If she were alive, she’d be around the same age. The hair, the eyes, the face. Ever think about finding out?”

“I thought about it.”

“Maybe she still has the doll. Everyone keeps a bit of themselves from their past. It would put your mind at ease.”

“It really wouldn’t.”

It wouldn’t.

“Cicero thinks it would. And maybe it would free us from going behind her back. So we could be more…open…and do things…openly…?” He paints his finger up my thigh.

I could humor him.

“That is if someone else doesn’t hold your heart.”

“There’s never been anyone who could tame it except you.”

“Cicero doubts that abundantly. I love it wild.”

We return to the inn and find the robed man gone along with the animals. I’m about to ask the innkeeper where they went but then I hear a clucking and a “Oh come on! A straight!?” from upstairs. The dog, the chicken, and the drunken man sit on the floor with dice sprawled out in the center. The chicken pecks at the empty mug but the man snatches it away from her.

“All right all right I’ll count it.” He tosses the dice in. “But it’s my shake! If this was my roll it’d be…my roll…cuz you know…I rolled it.” He shakes it, hands it downside to the chicken, and she pecks it over. “Oh come on!!!”

“Six sixes!” Cicero exclaims. “Impressive poultry.”

“It’s not fair, I tell you. This chicken’s out to get me.”

“_Thank_ you!” I say.

“Good game,” the man high-fives the dog. “Not you, chicken. You cheater.” He stands and refuses to take my money. “It’s on me. These guys make life more fun to live, know what I mean? Wow. And you,” he stands up to Cicero who doesn’t gag even though the whisky can be smelled all through town. “You are a trip. Call me Sam. We should have a drink sometime!”

They shake hands.

We shake hands.

Sam makes all of us shake each other’s hands.

It can’t get weirder so we leave straight for Falkreath.

“You’re back,” Asstrid says. “Did you meet this Moatear? What did he want?”

We stand about the top of the corridor, where she’s earshot to the main chamber, and eyes on the entrance and exit. I get why she stays here mostly, to keep control of the ins and outs. She didn’t seem surprised it took us extra long to come back with news. Of course this was a mission she put us on, so she’s not agitated, but if I go on my own without her knowledge? Sithis forbid the Listener does her own thing.

Chicken and Dog walk in like they’ve been here for months already, and I’m sure they’ve found the kitchen by now. I smell fresh bread and my stomach protests.

I find some taffy in my bag and chew on it before I dig out the priority items.

“To kill the Emperor,” I state.

“You’re joking.”

I show her the amulet and then the resealed letter. She takes it to the table and examines the wax in better light. She traces the stamp and I feel my heartbeat in my fingers. The longer she scrutinizes my work, the shorter my patience. Cicero cares about this place. There’s something about it he needs, craves, and slaughtering everyone in it doesn’t seem to be his solution. It’s worked for me before and as I reach slowly for the knife on my belt, she hums a Nord lullaby I have not heard in ages, nor remembered until now. I can’t hear her words, but the tune in her throat eases my hand away from the blade. Then she tears the letter open and the rest of me pacifies.

“By Sithis,” she reads on, “you’re not joking. To kill the Emperor of Tamriel…the Dark Brotherhood hasn’t done such a thing since the assassination of Pelagius. As a matter of fact, no one has dared assassinate an Emperor of Tamriel since the murder of Uriel Septim, and that was two hundred years ago…”

I glance down the hall. Cicero stares back at me.

“Surely the Night Mother wouldn’t misdirect us,” I say.

“No, she certainly wouldn’t.”

Oh, now you’re a believer? I’m one to talk but I ate my crow.

“And for whatever reason,” Asstrid continues, “she chose to relay this information to you. I don’t know exactly what’s going on here, if you’re the Listener, or this is some fluke, or what. But what we now have before us…”

“So we’ll accept the contract?”

“You’re damn right we’ll accept it. If we pull this off, the Dark Brotherhood will know a fear and respect we haven’t seen in centuries. You think I’d abandon an opportunity to lead my Family to glory? But this is all so much to take in. I need time to read the letter, and figure out where we go from here.”

I cross my arms and hope I swallow my tongue before I say something snide.

Asstrid goes on. “And this amulet. Hmm…we need that amulet appraised. There’s only one man who can give us what we need—Delvin Mallory.” I shut my eyes before they roll. “He’s a fence, a private operator. Works out of the Ratway, in Riften.”

You don’t say.

“I’ll keep the letter. Bring Mallory the amulet. Find out everything you can if he’s willing. He’ll offer you a letter of credit—that’s fine. Delvin Mallory and the Dark Brotherhood have…history. He can be trusted.”

To that we agree.

She doesn’t know who I am. And it’s all over the jarls’ reports to know me, including the worst up in Windhelm. Not once has she mentioned me as Dragonborn. I’ve climbed the sanctuary’s exterior. The chicken’s climbed it. I know above us is stone and she lives under it. Has she never left this cave?

Or maybe she does know and chooses not to acknowledge it. Was I in my guildmaster armor when she mernapped me? But I was in the Ragged Flagon. I was in my guild. If she doesn’t know then there’s someone in the Brotherhood who does and they’re keeping my secret for whatever purpose they need. This is why I don’t let other people do my footwork for me.

I make fast use of a horse returning to Riften, leaving Cicero behind to talk with the other Brotherhood members. He wants them to see that the Old Ways work, and that our meeting with the Elder Council is proof of that. If he finds out who knows my secret, it’ll be one less juggling ball to throw, although I don’t know if it’s good or bad.

Déjà vu strikes when I drop the amulet on the table again, but Delvin grabs his head, and groans.

I lower my voice. “She tells me you can be trusted.”

He sips water to resuscitate his spirit, then winks. “You don’t say.”

“That’s what I said.”

Back to sanctuary.

“It’s authentic.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say.” I give her the letter of credit, “Or he says.”

Delvin had asked me how she was doing. I could have told him I think she never sleeps, she holds onto what she thinks belongs to her so tightly she can’t get a grip on anything else, but I only said “Lacking in headache but a lot worse without you” and he liked that.

He replied, “That does make me feel a bit better—ugh—and envious all the same.”

If I had known I was going to be staring at her stark naked while she put on her sleepwear, I could have held onto that conversation, because she was covered in zero scars. Pristine skin of pinkish tone, not even a freckle on her ass. Arnie caught me checking her out from his matching game, cards painted together to form a picture, but mixed up across the table by the fireplace. He quit when we met eyes, finished a drink, and went to bed. At least he was decent and kept his tail inside his leathers while I was still in the room.

Her sleep gown took me back to when I asked the hungover Delvin about the night before I learned of the Brotherhood.

“Do you know who nabbed me?” I had asked. “You know…from before…”

“From when you mysteriously disappeared soon after I left you passed out?” Delvin confirmed. “No idea. You were there then gone. Nobody came in or out of the Flagon, and nobody used any doors, or I would’ve heard it. I kept the place tight as a drum.”

“Drums have holes.”

“Just so.” He leered at my armor. “You’re wearing different colors now.”

Astrid wears her nightgown better than I could. Pale on pale just works for her.

“Now that explains quite a bit,” she says. “Almond Moatear, you naughty, naughty boy.” I smirk. “Hiring the Dark Brotherhood to help you rise beyond your station. Delicious.” I hand her the letter of credit. “Splendid. We’re ready to begin, well, you are. After all, you’re the one the Night Mother spoke to.”

Let that rattle in your head, Asstrid.

She continues, “Now, I hope you have something nice to wear because you’re going to a wedding. More like the public reception. It should be lovely. You’ll mingle with the guests, eat some cake, stab the bride. And they say romance is dead. Vittoria Vici is your target, Solitude your location. Her death will cause an uproar which is exactly what we want. It is the wedding custom to address her guests. During her speech is the time to strike.”

“I best find something to wear,” I sniff my arm. I haven’t slept in two days nor bathed in four.

“I believe Veezara has that covered for you, with all that implies.” She chuckles.

I’m about to leave, about to avoid more talking, when I remember Cicero’s words. “There’s something else,” I say. “My hair. I was wondering if you could…”

“Oh that’s right! I completely forgot!” But something in her tone tells me she never did. “Meet me in my room after you’ve talked with Veezara. I’ll be ready for you by then.”

If all goes well, Asstrid and I will be friends, and she’ll approve Cicero and I as lovers, not conspirators against her. I’ll be able to hold his hand in public without the sanctuary raining daggers upon us because she’s still in charge. Cicero has faith the others will come around; they’ll see the Night Mother’s way is the right way, but I know reality. And Cicero’s reality is bent in another direction.

Pieces don’t fit in a puzzle without hope. When I look at Asstrid I see Aerin but I’ve long been used to the fact that she’s never coming back. If Cicero has ever known this pain he neutralizes it with cheerful gestures, perchance the violence staves the mental torment, or he’s not yet had the displeasure. How he carries himself, it’s as if he’s lost nothing, even a friend, nor watched the world around him crumble into oblivion. I envy that and perhaps why I was drawn to his ostentatious fashion and even more his bold outlook. There’s nothing fun trying to pick up what’s left, if anything, and try to start again. It’s best to move on and do something new than to try and begin where everything fell apart. It’d be nice to see my pessimism mistaken but the years scored on my bow tell me I know what’ll happen next. The Dark Brotherhood will be no different from every other pilgrimage I’ve taken because I know the truth: I’ll always be one piece short of a full picture.

Cicero has relieved his servile urges toward Night Mother and carried them into his room, where he’s offered Veezara a private area to tailor me into a lady, though the Argonian has been checking his back more often. Cicero’s done nothing but giggle to himself, completely innocent, though that’s not how Veezara sees it. I understand it because each time Veezara tapes me, it’s a rope around my neck, or waist, and we must both be thinking back to that night. I fight the desire to curl a grin into my heated cheeks; it’s nice to be noticed, but I can’t let anyone else see us in such a way. Not until I talk with Asstrid.

Veezara fits a quilted long coat around me. He tugs and adjusts folds as I stare off at a mannequin against the wall with matching attire fit for a man. My heart skips, imagining the jester clothes replaced with that. It looks like it would be snug in certain places, and drape elsewhere. Another heat flash comes over me.

“It’s nice, huh?” Veezara says.

I exhale. “Fit for a king.” And Keeper.

Cicero stands beside it, concentrating, inspecting, and notices the same look I gave him when we were…in the cove. When Veezara’s busy adjusting my coat, Cicero flutters his brow and I swear he’s licking his teeth behind that dumb half-smirk.

“It was hard getting the right measurements,” Veezara says, “but I think it fits me well.”

Cicero’s smirk freezes. Something inside me trips. It falls down my ribs and smacks into my gut. Whatever blush I had drained away, and filled me with nauseating dread. Without stabbing anyone, without wailing in objection, Cicero takes his stuck features and leaves. I want to scream for him to come back.

“Wha’?” I manage to say before something other than words comes up.

He stops to look behind him for the tenth time. “You didn’t know. I think Astrid must have wanted me to tell you.” Eleventh. “I’m going with you to the reception.”

Twelfth.

I arch my brow. Cicero hasn’t come back with a bludgeoning object to smash the lizard. Does that means he’s left the sanctuary?

Veezara continues, “We’ll make quite the unique couple but that’s what she intended, a talking piece for Vittoria, an Imperial, and her husband, a Nord. To show anyone can fall in love.” He leans in. “But don’t worry. This date is just for show. You won’t have to do anything that’ll make you uncomfortable.”

My mouth trembles when I try to smile. “You are kind.” A whimper escapes and I fold in my lips.

“Hey,” he pats my back. “It’s okay. I’ll be a perfect gentlemen.”

I hear something in the next room. I want to investigate because it’s a noise my father used to make when chopping wood. But the wood block is in the main chamber. Cicero? Gabriella enters and I smell the kitchen on her. She compliments Veezara’s taste in fabric. Babette blindsides us with “I bet it has loads of pocketsh” as she emerges from the shadows of Cicero’s bed chamber.

“At least a dozen,” Veezara smirks.

Gab and Bab harmonize, “Oooooooooh!”

“I think we’ll keep you,” Gabriella says. “At least until we all get dresses.”

“Arnbjorn would look awful.”

“But he’ll be the only werewolf with pockets.”

They walk their banter out and into another part of the sanctuary where I can tune them out, and focus on the tracker I gave to Cicero. He’s not far physically. I hasten Veezara to finish as subtly as possible, and when I choose the shoes to wear with the robe, I follow the pungent trail into the Night Mother’s chapel. I wished he had heard everything but I bet human ears can’t pick up what I can.

Cicero is on a bench with his feet propped against the next one up. I pick up the tense aura in the room, heavy, a cloud of it rests above him as he sulks.

“Cicero…” I say.

“So you’re going to a party. Without me.”

“I guess so.”

“That’s all right. It’s Cicero’s job to keep the Night Mother happy, and Cicero has been making sure someone else was. Perhaps too long…_I guess_.”

“I know you’re upset but—”

“Cicero doesn’t want to hear the Listener making excuses. You are our true leader and leaders don’t reason with subordinates, nor should they play favorites. Not even with the Fool of Hearts.” His voice shakes. “And such a fool.”

“Cicero—”

He leaves me to stand alone before the coffin, wearing clothes that match another man’s regalia, yet I feel more bare than I was in nought but the borrowed nightgown. I tremble, combing my fingers through my unbraided hair. Asstrid was paranoid before but she didn’t know what for. If she’s deliberately separating the Listener from the Keeper, she’s close to finding out, or she already knows.


	24. Fold Me Once Grain On You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iggy's fine. Everything's fine. Hair's braided, dress is made, and her date is...not...Cicero...that's fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A two-parter chapter, possibly three if I can't squeeze the rest in. I've been writing this one for a while. Party scenes can be long and complex because of everything happening and what can go wrong or right. Wanted to give you something to read because you've been patient. Thank you. My weekend got hella busy with events poppin up. I also homeschool, so yeah...plate's full.

I never hated the color of lit candles. A crescent display of them takes up half the room’s space when I return to Asstrid, who finishes up a bath and walks about brazened, telling me to take a seat by her wardrobe. Being stuck in a golden room with a nudist, my opinion’s transformed from neutral to loathing, which rhymes with clothing, but I doubt she would appreciate the limerick.

_There was a young girl without clothing_

_Whose sealed in this case of self-loathing_

_She shaved her chest bare_

_She grew out her hair_

_But could not cut her balls she’s exposing_

It’s fitting to suffer the vile scenery when I’ve broken Cicero’s heart without meaning to. I didn’t explain hard enough. I could have stopped him, chased him down, but the rampant emotions of it all have drained me from pushing. I’ve yet to find comfortable sleep in a bed. Ha. I’ve yet to find sleep. I rest, true, but sleep? How can I when Cicero doesn’t either? Have you tried sneaking up on the man? I can take lack of sleep, but it’s the mental toil, burdensome, and exactly what Asstrid counts on. She could have kept her throne had she left me alone; I never wanted to be Listener, never wanted Guildmistress, or Dragonborn. I thought I was avoiding it all so I could play, but Asstrid has a different game, and she’s made us all play without asking nicely. She’ll never wish for an opponent like me ever again.

Incense plumes a stench incomprehensible. I focus on the faint aroma of distant cheese. Veezara’s hemmed my outfit perfectly that I’m almost certain the dress will scrape the ground yet it never does. He’s fitted me in a corset to keep a feminine figure, as he put it, but a pleated damask gown, distracting enough to hide the pockets. A kind gesture without knowledge of my backpack. Not once did he insult me with a fabric from Morrowind, but kept a Skyrim tradition fused with Shadowscale features, which included a sock knife, thigh dagger, and wrist pig stickers. I didn’t tell him the last time I was in a dress, my parents tried to kill me. One with claws.

Arnbjorn still looks like my father, but is it weird that he doesn’t have the same wet dog smell, so he’s not all bad? When Arnie’s close, snow and metal find my nose, bits of pine, and the gas that overcame us. Veezara’s different, more importantly does not smell. When I was under his needle and scissors, he became shiny, and I asked about it. He mentioned no sweat glands, but he secretes a happy hormone. A unique talent, rare in Argonians, that helps share in his happiness if one touches him. From a simple handshake to mating. I wanted to ask what happens if someone licks it off, but I wouldn’t have gotten a word out over the blushing. I also wanted to ask if I could borrow it before I ran into Cicero again.

I slump into the chair.

Cicero hates me.

I hide my face in my palms.

Asstrid’s perfume saturates the room. She’s sitting by an open drawer with a box of glamour. She rolls a stick over her pressure points. I don’t see a dress or uniform.

“Are you going too?” I ask.

“By the Void, no.” She switches to a balm for her lips. “As leader I represent the Dark Brotherhood, and must maintain our appearance to the highest standards.” She rubs her eyelids with purple dust, and draws her lashes with beeswax and charcoal, then takes cotton, and powders her face before grabbing her brush, several hair ties, and moving to me.

I’m certain she saw me make a face when she neared.

“I’ll get that nightgown,” she says.

Sheer fabric is better than bare tits. And the perfume should mask the crotch smell.

“I haven’t had the thing washed but I know you took good care of it.” She finds it in the wardrobe and twirls it on. My abdomen seizes at the fairest hint of Cicero’s musk.

She pulls up a chair behind me and begins to brush my hair. Her perfume betrays me as a waft of crotch hits me when she sits.

“Your hair is so dry and coarse. I have some oil.”

I hear a drawer open, then palms rubbing together, and finally fingers over my scalp. My spine tingles. Oil won’t save my volcanic head decor but I don’t stop her attempt. Her nails gently scrape and massage skin long neglected. If I was Khajiit I couldn’t hide my weakness but if I think of Cicero in her place, I’m bound to emit a purr. The last time I did my hair was the night before I said fuck it all and traveled to Windhelm. I probably would have ripped my hair out on the trip to Solitude with Ulfric but it can take hours to get it this nice. I suspect Asstrid knows this when she’s prepared the entire room for the event. Not only are there candles, but an array of random decor. None of the things I’d think she’d like—a bowl of gemstones, a human skull with spell etchings, a book on the Night Mother by Gaston Bellefort, and a child’s doll with a faded red dress—but things she wants me to incite conversation.

We could be here forever if I don’t start talking. I stretch for the book and try to not move my head, but it’s out of reach.

“Here, I’ll get that.” She grabs for it and knocks the doll off the stand. “Dammit!” I take the book while she rescues the doll off the floor. “I’ve had this since…I can’t remember.”

I check the date of publication. “Not long.”

“I meant the doll.”

She’s going to try to talk about the doll. I flip the page after skimming a paragraph. I don’t know how these books are so thick and have only two or three readable pages, yet Cicero has a small journal filled with scribbles and sketches.

Hold on.

The Night Mother was Dunmer?

Asstrid says, “My uncle said I wouldn’t let go of it when they dropped me at his home.”

A Dunmer in the Thieves Guild. I bookmark the page with my finger.

“Profound,” I say.

If Cicero knows, and no doubt he does, he hasn’t said anything about it, and his attraction to me could be…no. Not going there. At least not in its creepy entirety. 

“I remember being scared. Scared of everything. Until I wasn’t.” She displays the doll upright. It leans on the skull. Its beads for eyes stare past me and I know I don’t have to look behind me to find nothing, but my neck cringes, as if someone’s invading my blind spot, and if I do look back there will be something. I spin about. Nothing, as I thought, but something as I felt.

“Feel haunted?” she asks.

She starts braiding my hair when I finally answer, “It’s foolish.” And ‘such a fool,’ his words echo.

“Why?”

“Because we’re the only ones here and no one can get in.”

“Could be the betrayed soul of Lucien Lachance. A Speaker in Cheydinhal Sanctuary long ago who was wrongfully mutilated by his own people.”

I open the book again. “Is there more about it in here?”

“Thankfully, no. It is a secret kept in the Family. Festus would know more. I was never one to keep up on history.”

But Festus isn’t the Keeper. Aside from roaming halls and making poisons I haven’t found out what he does here, except if he’s ancient—as ancient as assassins go—he’s good at his job, or hiding and never leaving the sanctuary, much like present company. However, he was the only one who respected Cicero. A polite assassin that might show me the same courtesy as the Listener.

Instead of indulging Asstrid’s manipulation, I swallow the contract’s requirement of leaving Cicero behind, and ask her to go over the finer details of the wedding. I recall Solitude’s many narrow staircases, spiraling and linear, outside, and inside, and how the best way I got Ulfric out was to the water. Where we’ll be requires similar finesse, and Veezara and I can use the mass party as a distraction, or never make it at all, and take the ramparts. But why waste a perfectly made dress if I can’t show it off? My hands sweat and I wipe them on my knees. It’s hot in here and I find myself breathing harder like how one does before they’re overcome with nausea. Except the fingers tugging my hair keep me grounded and I focus on the twisting strands, the pins holding the braids to my head, and not at Cicero’s face with grief melting his smile to a stricken frown.

“You two are going to make a cute couple,” she says.

I say, “Yes.”

Until you ruined it. I was going to ask her about her uncle, about how she came to be a part of the Brotherhood, but disdain for splitting us up stops my tongue.

There’s a knock on the open door.

“Am I interrupting?”

Veezara stands in the doorway to my left, in festive violet and green, matching fabrics to my dress, and cuts complementing the reptile’s narrow waist, and long tail. I feel he’d hold the door open for you just before slicing your throat.

Asstrid turns, “Just putting the finishing touches on your date.” She adds an ornament to my hair. “There.” And clears my line of sight to V.

I dismiss myself, insides turning like I skipped too many meals, and V steps aside.

“After you,” he says.

I rub my neck.

Our carriage meanders up and down the slopes toward Solitude. Carth River carries a frigid breeze and I should shiver, but I’ve been cooking up thoughts, festering regrets all the way until the castle and bridge come into view, and soon the entrance, tiny now, but as undesirable. A patrol walks by, Imperial red and bronze, and I’m thankful they don’t inspect us because it hasn’t been long since the death of Torygg, and the general’s breath in my ear upon my arrest. There’s one good thing Ulfric did and that was lead. As leader you take the blame for everything. While he hides in Windhelm, the general’s focus would be strategizing a way into the castle, and avenging the king. But as I think more on the matter, I was the only Dunmer among the Stormcloaks.

I’m recorded dead, I’m recorded dead, I’m recorded dead.

“Are you all right?” V asks.

He sits where the Nord did before our execution, and looking just as concerned.

“You look like you have worms living in your skin.”

The trees lift off as the cliff rises along the road. It’s the slight descent before the climb through the double gates and the carriageman informs us he’ll have to stop at the farm else he won’t be able to turn around. The harbor rests below on calm blackened water with sunset highlights rippling over the surface. Browns become blue and lanterns grow brighter. I see the lamplighter walking up from the docks, a hooded man with a hooked pole strapped like a bow, and a belt of new candles with a dwarven oil can latched to one of the many loops. He turns up just as we make circle and park facing the hill to Solitude.

“It’s not our wedding,” V chuckles. “No need for the jitters now.”

I’ve lost nails to bite and gnaw on my cuticles. I would be excited if it wasn’t Veezara that was here. I can’t be caught and locked away again. Not alone, not with V. This contract has to go perfectly and that means I must blend in with the party. I had worn Thieves Guild armor within the walls, so no one should recognize me. Should. If one Stormcloak is here, I’m done. I can only hope this wedding is such a farce to unite Imperials and Stormcloaks through mere marriage that everyone said fuck the RSVP.

Fireworks explode over Solitude, lighting the cloudy sunset dying into twilight. I spot numerous shadows along the ramparts with every flash of light. Cheers and applause fill the air. A rosy orange horizon fades to a green when we meet the second and main door. V jumps off the cart first and offers me his hand. I flash back to Loreius Farm. I’m not wearing gloves but Veezara is waiting and I have to brace his touch or else it’ll be rude. I can’t chance any more enemies in the Brotherhood. It’s snake belly soft when I receive it and climb down. The array of colors bursting in the sky make me yearn for other company.

“Cicero should be here,” V says, admiring the sky.

I clench my teeth so I don’t squish his hand, then onward to the worst idea possible.


	25. Fold Me Twice Grain On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iggy attends the wedding. So does everyone else.

Veezara stops me at the main doors. “Easy does it.”

“I’m fine.” I check the guard’s eyes and I swear they flicker at me. I scratch my arm. “Fine.”

“Receptions aren’t long. We only have to be here for as long as you want.”

Preferably in and out.

“Ready?”

It takes one Stormcloak…

One.

Veezara pushes through, the door creaks a low groan drowned by an eruption of frivolity. Solitude is anything but itself. The cold city I knew is afire with life, decorated in red and blue garland flags, zig-zagging from opposite roofs of stores, all the way to the temple. Bodies feather out from the venue, pouring as drunks do when they need cooler air, and an alley to hear themselves talk, or make deals they’ll later regret. People in formal dresses and jackets walk about with mugs of ale filled and spilling, or empty and high over their heads as they sing out of tune. The Winking Skeever’s open and Golum-Ei looks happy with himself. He spots me and raises his coin purse in salute. Imperials march down the slalom path from Castle Dour, in step to a raunchy cadence. Veezara and I wait until they pass before heading upstream , but before I can ascend, someone knocks me over, and V catches me.

“Hey!” V shouts.

I stand and heat drains from my face. Pillars of blue and gray fabric frothing Nord beards and braided hair swelling with muscle atop boulders for boots. Axes on their belts. Hammers on their backs. Mead shining off their mouths. The almond-ginger stares me down. His friends square up and align with him. In the Twilight, I faintly see his face from the lanterns nearby and he’s not smiling.

“Is she with you?” he points.

“Yes,” V responds.

I jump when the Stormcloak grabs my hand and kisses it. “Ach! I am so sorry! I’m a newborn foal on these cobblestones.”

The raven-haired Nord squawks for the city to hear, “You mean you’re ten tankards under, ya daft deerhound!”

“Aye!” He laughs.

“AYE-AYE!” The army of Stormcloaks about him roar. “Olaf One-Eye! Killed the dragon, bard, no lie! Paid his eyes a handsome sum to keep the mead from running dry!”

“No, no! That’s not—” the ginger Nord hushes them and whispers, “that’s not even how it goes.” He pats my hand. I wonder why he hasn’t let go. I’m too stiff to tug away. “I apologize. We’re a bit jolly for the wedding. Maybe we’ll see you again later?”

When I don’t answer, V speaks for me, “She’s looking forward to it.”

A big smile stretches his beard and blue eyes sparkle. He kisses my hand again and orders his men “to the forest! For the longest piss that’ll grow the trees in Sovngarde!”

They call out, “AYE!” and begin the Olaf rhyme again with a different verse and louder than the Imperials they pass by.

Imperials stomp their feet and shout at the top of their helmets. “Ho, ho, Captain No! Fill that jug, stay that ho! Ho, ho where’d she go? We don’t know, but one day though, we’ll take her pride, we’ll spread her wide, and hang the men of Skyrim hide!”

“Hey!” The ginger barks. “Can you teach me that one?”

I walk to Castle Dour, weaving through Imperials and Stormcloaks, nobles and peasants, children and grown-ups. Taking in the bicolor symphony, its harmlessly mellifluous state renders me knowing that I am in a shroud. With their haze and numbed minds, my face is every other, an unrecognizable blur, and if I wanted, I could still utilize my subtle talents, and they won’t get me at all. Veezara must have talents he’s yet told and the sense left on the back of my hand lingers enough I remember what beard hair feels like. I rub my hands and twist my fingers together. They’re clammy and spent too much time with the wrong people. I’m convinced I can keep them in my dress until I have to use them, but that doesn’t happen when we meet the heart of the reception, a small courtyard overrun by elaborate dresses, pyramids of drink and food, and only two bay exits with one barred by an iron gate. The bride and groom face the door to the Temple of Divines and I begin to wonder why the Daedra don’t have their own organized house. We would have to go on pilgrimage to find them, or happen upon a person who knows too much. Aedra keep it simple. Touch this shrine, pray, and they’ll bless you. They don’t ask for much and don’t give much in return. Like a parent who’s only half-interested in their children. I sneer at the temple and turn my back to it, meeting eyes with the bride to die, Vittoria Vici.

“Now’s a good time as any,” V hints and hands me a full goblet. I return it empty. “Damn, Igniri. It’s not water.”

He gives me his to refill mine and I down that too but keep it for aesthetics as I approach the target. We exchange pleasantries. I’m surprised I could talk given my pounding chest and throbbing ears. I’ve only faced my kill once and she wasn’t desirable or cheerful. I don’t find any flaws, and none to see but beauty, and a kind heart. Her groom, worse so, as he asks about Veezara and admires our open relationship.

“Not many would be so bold,” he says.

“Your marriage inspired us,” I lie.

I congratulate them again and move back to the wine. Its table is lush with various breads and cheeses, among them each labeled to pair with particular reds and whites. I inhale the aroma, grinning in my creeping stupor, and catch wind of one cheese not found on the spread. Creamed earth and berries from Morthal.

I spin about and the sea of brown jackets blocks any possible view of my newest target. I need to get higher. Gabriella mentioned a nice spot above the temple. I try to leave but Veezara stops me.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to work?”

I roll my eyes. It worked for Grelod and I’m not nearly half as drunk. At most, I’m warm, and it’s tamed my urge to drop the contract altogether. I have to get through this even if I don’t think she deserves it. No one in love deserves murder for loving the wrong man at the wrong time.

“Move,” I go around him and meet faces of women giggling in the circle.

One says, “Are you the one who came with that lizard?”

Two says, “How does it work exactly? Hi, I’m Mallia. This is Freir.”

Three hushes Two. “Ssh! I want to know what attracted her to him. I’m Silana. Hello. Was it the tail? His tender hands? It was the hands wasn’t it? Divines, send me a man with good hands.”

“It wasn’t the tail,” I answer.

Four chimes in hushed tones, “I bet it was how his—”

“Jala!” Three hisses at Four and I’m done.

I excuse myself to get some air, all the clearer to get one whiff of the right scent than many whiffs of the wrong, and Veezara comes up from my peripherals, and guides me back to the party, firmly.

“Maybe if you waited a bit before venturing out alone. We wouldn’t want anyone to take advantage of you.”

“Darling,” I say. “You’ve known me for a moon phase. I am perfectly capable—”

“But I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.”

“I’m not! Vici’s there, I’m gonna be up there! It’s done! Bye!” I strain my grin and stomp off only to be trapped into music playing. The ensemble begins to sing and Veezara takes me to the open floor. I fantasize peeling off his scales with a knife, stripping the tough exterior to use the meat underneath. He twirls me about and there’s nothing but gold and silhouettes. They blur and fade and then there’s nothing but light. And for a lizard, he’s a rehearsed dancer, leaving me stuck in societal convention, where I must pretend to like it. I’ll like his tail in my modified stew. Or perhaps breaded and fried with a side of garlic butter. Or perhaps the wine finally overcomes me and I like the song, and the feeling of the drums beat with my heart, and the lute unbroken, and expertly strummed. V takes me around him, a top about a pole, then we join center, and I follow his feet. He spins me again, slower now, and what’s all gold has a spot of emblazoned red that stops me to wobble in my inertia.

I pray for my head to settle the dizzying room waving out and in and when everything aligns sharply again, in he walks through the arch.

Cicero struts as fluid as the blood color suit he wears, and as sleek as his combed hair lacking a stitched hat. He looks everywhere else but the stillness where I exist which means he knows exactly where I am. He enjoys a beverage he picks off the nearest table before Mallia approaches him swaying her hips, and asking where he’s from.

[ ](https://www.deviantart.com/bbmactoma/art/Til-Death-Do-You-Part-858535090)

My mouth pinches, skin flushes, and Cicero smiles, and winks between eating a nut and sipping wine. I hear Silana mumble to Freir, “I don’t see a ring.” And Freir says, “Go get him!” Silana giggles her way with her putrid yellow gown and full cup and plate of fatty foods. She makes it all the way to the nailed down rug and makes herself trip. I rub the itch on my nose and sneer at Cicero catching her, the goblet, and the arc of food with the plate. “Wow,” Freir mutters, “he’s so dextrous.” She rolls her fingers together, as if grabbing something imaginary. I gloss over the possibility that the almond-ginger knocked me over on purpose to meet me. They must have attended the same school of lame come-ons.

I put my drink down and gracefully stalk him through the growing crowd of wet panties.

“Are you the guest or the court jester tonight?” I say to him.

The women eye me sideways.

“Why an honored guest, of course.” He feigns offense.

“Is it because you left your costume at home?” I smirk.

“Mind your knives with humble Cicero for they are sharp and easily wound.”

“I must thank you for sharpening them. I hope your Mother knows you’ve left her behind again.”

I leave him braised but it’s me that’s burning. He grins at his audience but I know he can’t resist me. He’s followed me all the way here, he’ll follow me a few steps more.

For his exit, he juggles fruits, higher and higher until he can pop an apple into his mouth, and “accidentally” drop a fig down Silana’s cleavage. She squeaks excitedly and tosses it back to his catching hand. He sets the fruit onto her plate and hands it over with a bow, taking the apple with him as he walks to me, still no eye contact.

“So you’ll take her apple but not mine?” I cross my arms.

Cicero bites a chunk off and gnashes snidely.

I nod to the women fanning themselves. “You have a following.”

He graces me with nonchalance, “Cicero would be quite the catch but I’m afraid I’d kill them out of lassitude.” He leans and in his refusal to look me in the eye I observe his tight vest and long coat. He couldn’t live without his boots and had them washed and shined.

“Who’s your tailor?”

He squares his shoulders with me. His brown eyes burrow intensely into mine.

“Why did the Listener ask Veezara, not Cicero, to attend this celebration of joining hearts?”

“Ask? I didn’t ask.”

“More lies,” he scoffs. “Lies from the Listener strike Cicero true yet I cannot die.”

“That’s rich,” I snap, “You of all people not believing me. Veezara told me Asstrid told him to go!”

“Well you didn’t exactly correct Asstrid and I overheard your little talk in her room. Not once did you mention me! I thought we agreed—”

“I was looking for an opening!”

“You’re the Listener! Our Listener! You tell _her_ what to do!”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything! We’ve been through this.”

My stomach hurts. I catch heads turning, eyes glancing; we’re creating a scene, the last thing I want. I take him to the other side with the target dummies and moonlight. The guards are asleep save the ones at their posts. Cicero’s jacket’s almost purple in the dark.

“You didn’t even try,” he mutters to keep his voice down, but anger swells volume. “Do you not want people to know about us?”

“I don’t care about other people!” My head spins and if I let them my eyes will water, so I stare unblinking, hoping they’ll dry and shrivel so I won’t have to see him mad at me.

“Then why?” He puffs his chest. “Why didn’t you ask about the doll!?”

I pull in my mouth and bite them hard.

He shouts, “Why!?”

“Because she’s not Aerin!”

His chest deflates, eyes flicker, nostrils calm. “How do you know?”

“That’s…” Deep breath.

I rub my face in the exhale of a hundred regrets. I can’t. I can’t say it out loud.

“That’s great,” Cicero says. “And I thought the Night Mother was quiet.”

“Look…”

He waves me off—

“Cicero is tired of doing all the listening when you’re not.”

—and walks back into the party, the perfect smokescreen of gilded laughter and song.

Veezara’s ear holes must have burned. He finds me later on the shaded ramparts, where a bow and several arrows keep me company. “Well, that could have gone better.”

I swirl my third-fourth-fifth drink. “Cicero doesn’t believe me. Wait…what could have?”

Could have been the fifth drink. Veezara’s rigid skin shines in the blackened blue, faintly alight from the torches below.

“My apologies for deceiving you both.” V hands me a soft parcel. “I couldn’t let Astrid know.”

I pull the string tying the parcel and it reveals folded red fabric, same as Cicero’s. “Two dresses?”

“Gabriella asked me to cover for her while she did a different part of our project. Then Astrid…well, details, details. I don’t trust her. “I like Astrid but the way Cicero’s been talking about the Night Mother, and how other sanctuaries were run, and meant to be run, he seems saner than she is. Call me crazy, but I couldn’t chance seeing the Listener and the Keeper at each other’s throats, not after the history of our other sanctuaries, and the Shadowscales…”

“I can’t go to Cicero with this. He hates me.”

“I guarantee you,” he makes me put down my goblet, “he doesn’t.”

“So you know?”

“I’m surprised I’m the only one. I overheard Cicero talking to the Night Mother about you. The way his voice changed, all quiet and contemplative…it was like he was…normal.”

I bow my head and pick at my ear.

““You two are bizarre beyond oblivion, but I think it’s cute.” He pats the folded dress. “And you should try again. I’ll go talk to him and when he’s convinced, I’ll be keeping an eye on Vici to make sure she doesn’t end the night too soon for you to complete the job.”

“I can’t believe you would do this for us,” I say.

“Well, it wasn’t easy getting you both here without either of you knowing. Playing on your emotions seems to be more Astrid’s forte.”

“It worked.” I unfold the dress and he helps me untie myself. “Thank you.”

I barely know him. I don’t sense an angle except the frank response of unwavering speech. Cicero and I have an ally. Regardless of Cicero adamant religious antics witnessing for Sithis, we have someone who sees through Asstrid’s schemes, and chooses us over her. Divines, I want to rub that in her face so bad right now, but I have a hot date to recover. Veezara leaves me to the rest and as I slip off the old and put on the new, my worries peel away, just as a lizard strips its skin and leaves refreshed. I scramble to hook my corset—easiest part of the whole thing; Veezara’s a genius designer. Who knew? But the longer I’m up here, the shorter time I have to make things right. I see V making his way to a group of women—the same group—and prying Cicero away from them and what could be cocoa balls, or cake. Up here the fragrances mingle into a decoction made by the whims of catering and guests. I ache to be down there again, and jump up and down to finish the last thread before I rush to the stairs. My hands shake—I pocket one and let the other brush along the wall, down as I go, where the gold fills the stairs, and I’m back in the light, standing tall, and stiff. I fear I’ll fall. I wait for Veezara but as I stand, staring far across the room of Nords and Imperials, I lose my proximal sight, and I can’t see the man who has approached me until his voice locks me in place and I spring into a flash of sweat.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

General Tullius, already shorter than me, stands at the foot of the steps in decorated armor, recently buffed and shined, and even though he’s the smallest man in the world, I feel like I stepped into a giant’s lair, and insulted his mother.

My throat tightens and I want to reach into my numerous pockets, but I can’t move. I’d rather stare down Arnbjorn. Or Asstrid. Or _my_ mother. The giant can insult her all day.

“As I breathe,” he says while I don’t, “a ghost at a banquet.” He bows. “May I have the honor?”

He offers his giant tiny hand. Hand after hand and none the one I want to hold. In the few moments of joy, Asstrid stripped me of it, and she was one of the first to lay her fingers on me. And here’s another enemy of mine, trapping me in unspoken extortion. Suddenly, that fifth drink doesn’t feel nearly as bad as putting my palm against his, and entitling him to lead me onto the floor, where a few others have begun to waltz. I never knew how to waltz because it’s something new brought over by the Empire, but the general’s willing to rush me to the field.

In the first step he pulls me with him and I try to keep in step. None of me is military and even worse I can’t take orders, but he’s resilient, and he goes left and crosses arms for me to go right, and then he’s right, and I’m left, and we turn, and spin, and I feel alcohol and dread colliding in my gut.

“You look pale,” he says, “for a dark elf.” He slows us down and it’s easy steps around the other dancers. “You needn’t fret. You’ve already been to the chopping block once.” He smirks and nods to a couple who passes us. “I’ve come to realize that it may have been divines’ intervention that wanted you alive and I’m a man of reason. Who am I to deny the gods?”

Tullius whirls us back around. I’m surprised I’ve only kicked his sandal once, then after, it’s been all distractions, and somehow my body knows where to go. Not well, not perfect, but following. For once, I don’t have to take the lead, and as strange as it sounds, it’s freeing. No worries about getting it right because he’s there to take responsibility. But the voice in my head—the one that’s yelling _no-no-no-no-no-no-no!_—precludes the comfort in allowing myself to follow blindly. 

“You’re not going to dance me off a cliff?”

“If I can’t kill you, maybe I should enlist you. At least I’d know you’d come back alive.”

A man tried to tame a bear once. I didn’t know him long enough to care as I walked through what was left of him.

Can’t leash me, general.

“Is that a smile?”

You got me.

“No.” I turn over my grin. “I didn’t know you’d be attending parties with the coming war.”

“Half my men are probably here getting hammered. With the damned Stormcloaks about, I gotta keep an ear to the ground. Also, I was invited, and I attended these things back in Cheydinhal, whether I wanted to or not. I understand Skyrim custom holds no courtships or planning. No real way to learn about your partner, so I wanted to see the fraudulence in its splendor.”

I try to look over my shoulder when red flashes by. “You don’t believe in this marriage?”

“Please,” he scoffs. “How far do you think this union would come to saving the land? A marriage without love is an abuse of the Divines’ gifts and doomed from the start.”

“That’s not how Nords see it.”

“Well they should. Marriage is a contract binding love, not countries. Leave that to our military. You’ll be with your spouse beyond death but their land stays behind.”

“Quite the romantic, General.”

“I like rules. Anyone who doesn’t follow them should brace for consequences.” 

Blurs of people resituate into solid figures standing aside us as the ensemble rests. Tullius’ rough hands leave mine and relief waves over me to settle what’s woozy. As I back away, Cicero approaches behind Tullius. I had caught a glimpse of him earlier; I thought he was watching with Veezara, but it’s just him now.

“May I _cut_ in?” He giggles.

Tullius nods. Before he goes, he tells me, “We’re on the verge of war. One misstep could be the first axe in the head.” He bids me goodbye. “Stay safe out there.” And ventures toward Castle Dour.

“My, my,” Cicero checks me out. “Is this my Listener? Surely she has been stolen and a queen stands in her place.”

“You talked with Veezara.”

“I did.”

“Can you ever—” I don’t get to finish but I don’t get to make excuses either while he kisses me so hard I can feel his teeth behind his mouth, and then I surely feel his tongue on mine.

“Dance with me,” he pants.

“But there is no music.”

“Only when we’re apart.”

Cicero beams when I slip back into the place I belong; I squeeze his hand tight to rid the feeling of the those who dared touch me before. The swarm of horny women stand flabbergasted, mouths agape, or sneering near to tears, as I take Skyrim’s most desired bachelor, and dance to our own tune, until the wine in me fades, and I’m ready to notch the arrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Welp. I goofed. There are no stairs leading into the courtyard, just to the Dour training area. I don't know how I'll rework that part but just so you know, I see the mistake, and it'll be corrected in the next chapter. So there'll be a slight inconsistency for a bit. (why I forewarn people that these are cleaned up rough draft fanfics...I make boo-boos.)


	26. All Mauled Up And Nowhere to Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iggy admits to madness while listening to reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This shouldn't have taken so long to write but I was stuck. Wall after wall. But we made it to Bound Until Death. I have personal matters stacking up in Dec so prepare for another delayed chapter. I'm on "vacation" for a month, but it's work. Managed to finish writing the morning I fly out. Haha! Don't wish for time, make the time, am I right? (I should post a recipe for butter chicken...)

You have to be mad to fall in love. In any way of publicizing your vulnerability, you chance all actions against you, from a jealous friend to a power-hungry politician, or simply the thug in the dark who knows where to hurt you to get what he wants. Then there’s the natural state of decline. The butterflies die and what’s left is what you hope is love, but you can’t tell because it’s been so long since you’ve felt the ping of giddiness that maybe it’s more complacency than adoration. And if that adoration doesn’t die with the butterflies, you live in constant worry that they’ll get hurt, or sick, or fall to death’s bed, and you always believe that it’s the same day you think it.

Tonight isn’t perfect. It’s glorious. A chaotic swell of oh-nos that I never knew what was happening until after it happened, and even then, I still can’t believe it did. The night ages but the energy is young and peaked. Everyone at the party is full of mead and laughter, and as such, the merry aura carries outside the castle, and affects all not in attendance, lifting the usual dull city into a place one might find friends. I had walked through a town during New Life Festival, a comparable feeling, where nothing can go wrong, until I had to escape because of the raid. Where people create happiness, those without will take it, which is why my nerves wrack in the most peaceful settings, and I am undisturbed when holding the buzzkill. Yet I haven’t fired for all the reasons besetting me. Above the party in a fish barrel, I’m along the battlements with Veezara, angling my bow down at Vittoria as she moves to higher ground. If I meet Cicero at the altar will there be another me in the shadows, drinking my wine, dancing to my music with a dagger in their hand? I breathe deep, relax my shoulders, arm angled as it always remembers to be, though the stranger’s bow is different weight and pull, I manage. The string digs, having none of the leather straps I’ve put on mine. It entices me to release, however the string isn’t the only thing pulled. I’m stuck yelling in my head to let go, but it doesn’t matter. My fingers turning white and throbbing are dismissed to doubt.

I exhale and drop my aim. “I can’t do it.”

Vittoria begins atop her small balcony, radiant standing tall as she was sitting modest. “Good friends and neighbors…”

Silver light casts across her, elegant ripples in silk. 

“This is the perfect angle,” Veezara states.

“It’s not the angle,” I say.

My fingers sting but what’s worse is I’m shaking. I never shake.

“Nothing’s obscuring you.”

“She’s innocent, V.”

The silvery light separates and pulls from her body, streaking behind to gain form; a curtain, maybe.

Vittoria waves to the people. “I’m so happy all of you could join us…”

She’s unaware. I’m about to ask V but I cut myself off. Cicero must see us or sense something’s wrong. He leaves the fish barrel, and in moments, appears skip-bounding down the path to us.

“Are you crazy?” V says.

I stare at the curtain.

“Not without reason,” I tell him.

V’s face verifies what I said, a contradiction which is my life’s summary.

“Well you can’t be. Not now.”

Her voice carries. “My husband Asgeir and I thank you for coming to our reception…”

I don’t think it’s a curtain.

Cicero enters our social circle and matches our hissing with aggravated mumbling. “What’s taking so long?”

“She won’t shoot,” V says.

Cicero covers his squeal. “Merciful Listener!” He leans in with alcohol on his breath, shadows fall down his brow, and his voice deepens, as dark and hallowing if Sithis spoke. “She has to die. It is the Night Mother’s will.”

Instead of a chill, I’m invigorated with a buzz, a hive awake, and prepared to sting.

“Vici hasn’t done anything wrong.”

In case he tries to choke me, I ease my chin into my neck, eyes locked on him, watching for body movement, or pupils shrinking. It’s not that I don’t trust him. It’s that I do.

“Is that all?” Cicero grumbles.

Spine hairs stand on end. My muscles swell, ready. He reaches inside his jacket and I’m about to uppercut him with the bow when he flings his arm outward and I don’t register what’s happened until I hear screaming and gurgling. Daggers had flown from his hand and stuck Asgeir in the leg, Vittoria in the neck, and ricocheted off a gargoyle above. Chips of stone fall onto Vittoria’s head, who grabs at her throat where she won’t find the end of her speech. Asgeir pulls his sword, but can’t walk without crying out. And the curtain’s gone. It takes the crowd below a moment to overcome the shock, the dead quiet of realization before the panic. Silana’s first to pierce the night howling and satisfaction rouses me. Noble or peasant, they’re all spiders running from a shoe. Some have brandished weapons, but their heads are spinning. Chaos unfolds confusion and as we’re still in the shadows, we’re invisible. A woman screams atop all other screams and with Cicero’s hand resting on my face, I swoon, gazing dear upon his shaded features faintly outlined by the ambient light.

“Your honor’s safe with me,” Cicero strokes my cheek.

I trusted Cicero to be himself, to attack anyone who would betray the Night Mother. As he is Keeper, he follows his way, and as I am supposed to Listen, not doing so should be hazardous to my life.

“She was never innocent!” Veezara snaps. “She lives with another man. They sleep in the same bed. Why are we debating this now? We have to go!” Veezara stomps off, then when he sees I haven’t cared enough to follow because Cicero’s now holding my hands, he waves us down. “Hey, love turds!” He’s halfway between us and our path along the battlements.

Vittoria is now surrounded by her bodyguard and family, but no one can help her. The general’s words echo in Asgeir’s furious sobs. Veezara bobs in place and I recall others don’t have the peace chaos brings me, nor the control of the dark. Cicero sprung a new rush in me. My heart’s full and arms steady, but I stand still, and the feeling wanes. I read Cicero and it’s like he knows what I’m thinking, what I need. It’s what he needs too.

Foot placement, elbows up, and pull. Arrow aligned. Deep breath. Exhale.

What the cluck!?

Chicken stands on the gargoyle’s head, but I’ve already loosed the need.

“Ha ha!” Cicero smacks his knee but I am not amused!

Vittoria falls back with the arrow into her eye. The poultry observes, twitching its head like every thought needs a convulsion to be understood. And not to be impressed, but the chicken pecks at the gargoyle’s head, and now I believe Sam from the tavern was right. It knows. For now, this could be a good thing.

Asgeir tries running to her side before she falls to the ground. Each peck helps the stone grind against itself; the gargoyle’s head a water drop on a leaf, hanging on the tip, until _plish_, which is more like a _crunch_, and I swear I heard a pop. Eyeballs sometimes do that.

“Neat trick!” Cicero beams then readies his favorite dagger.

“Great,” V grumbles, who pulls out a sword and pig sticker, eyeballing the law below who have finally caught on.

“It came from over there!” A guard yells.

Yeah, two arrows from one spot is bad…

Good.

Veezara leads control of the choke point at the Y where the path curves around into the Imperial training ground or above the balcony, where the chicken is. Slinking through the battlements over Dour would lead us out of Solitude as easily as it did with Ulfric, and I plan on letting Veezara bait the guards to follow so I can pick them off in the narrow passages, but Cicero happens.

Veezara shouts, “Where’re you going!?” When Cicero doesn’t answer, “Where is he going!?”

Cicero gracefully dances through the hysteria, stealing the spaces around the guards as wind through hair. I ponder his movements and how he must have a direction in mind. Some fish have needs to swim upstream. Maybe he could have gone the other way but it wouldn’t feel natural, as hardship is for people like us.

“Sorry, V,” I say, and take the path to the busted gargoyle. I shoot as many guards below as I can, and kill the one to sound the bell across the grounds, but more arrive regardless. V retreats into the shadows. I don’t see him until after I’ve cleared enough down low, and yell at the chicken to follow.

“Is the dog with you too?” I remark with all feelings of snide.

We make it past the tower with spiral stairs and I peek through the westside crenellation. V’s climbing over the stone gardens, and hiding against protruding walls, trying to keep Cicero’s flank clear as the jester moves south. I could take the stairs or practice my balancing acts jumping parapets. I brave pursuit along the walls and jump atop the first parapet only to be met by an illusion. Silvery light greets me at the lower level. It’s a man, my ethereal conundrum in full form wearing a robe, not a curtain.

The ghost of Lucien Lachance.

Winter’s chill sends its warning up the sea, and catches my dress. I always favored autumn. I hated watching it go. My eyes can’t track Cicero unless I move forward. A swarm of guards head his way, too many for V. I swallow what feels like unchewed food being squeezed down my throat. Lucien waits with no urgency of her mortal time. I search my peripherals for a detour, but it’s a long drop. And the stairs would set me back. Lucien knows it. What little I see of him, he at last moves, and stretches a frown to a small grin. He turns as if to step off, and vanishes. I crouch and vault the second and third wall, the gown’s skirt flowing behind, then falling dead with a snap when I drop onto the path leading to Proudspire. Chicken plays a mean game of follow the leader and I’m glad for it. Chicken and I pop our heads over crenels and if anyone saw us, we’d look grotesque.

The chicken clucks.

Oh, come on that’s pure.

We duck back down and Chicken clucks again.

“One pun a day,” I promise with crossed fingers, which turn about an arrow I put to the bow, and aim, no pull.

Cicero’s in the crowd, along with streaks of unnatural blue rounding the nearest house. I remember scouting here; the guards can’t get to us unless they figure out how to climb without stairs. Outside the temple courtyard, no one’s aware of what’s happened apart from the local guards running amok. Those who were in immediate attendance wail on deaf, drunken ears, becoming the loudest offspring of terror no banshee could outdo. Guests think it’s a joke at first. _They’ve been murdered, they’ve been murdered!_ Truth dies in the intrusion of their fun. Only until the guards start barking orders at guests do they become sheep following the panic. Where people trickle out from the brightly lit marketplace, the rest of the knowing are dismissed with laughter and the mead flows amongst the oblivious, with Cicero eastward, away from the contrasting crowds, and toward me, at the most the enclosures with ample shadow.

Nobody has come up here in decades. There’s moss growing through the stone and weather has cracked the surface. I lower my bow and step gingerly down the lane, getting Cicero’s attention with a tongue click.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He signals me down. The guardswarm is moving in on the houses, and he knows without looking. He sidesteps behind the first home and meets me near the small bridge connecting neighbors. Cicero holds his arms out and I feel the butterflies.

I jump.

It’s not graceful but it’s doubtless. He catches me and I don’t break his back, so I’m not as heavy as I think.

“Listener didn’t think before she leaped?” he asks.

“No need.”

He hasn’t put me down yet so I gather he wants to kiss me. I would like to feel his fresh shave, but clanking of armor cuts the moment short, and I get the pleasure of pine needles poking at my cloth when we hide in the corner with the tree. I don’t forget to crouch else I’ll have to move my hand off his thigh, and I rather like how firm it is beneath the cloth. Cicero squeals.

A guard stops. “You hear that?”

Another guard stops.

Cicero’s heart pounds against me, his breathing near-deafening, as a wind through mountains. The guard steps way from the archway, the exit we hoped they’d all take. If one dies, the others find out, and then all guards will die because I’m not getting caught. I don’t care if I can never set foot inside Solitude again. Cicero slowly reaches for his dagger, soundlessly pulling it from its sheath along the small of his back. One guard backtracks toward the stairwell, the other toward us, slinking carefully, an ax in one hand, a shield in the other. One hit and he’ll cripple me for months. One good hit and I’ll be seeing Night Mother shaking her head.

“I heard it again.”

“Heard what?”

The dagger’s out, resting at his side. The guard squints at the tree—

_Bugock!_

—and rolls his eyes. “Is that a damned chicken, _guardsman_?” He relaxes his ax and turns away. “Let’s get the hell back to the others.

I thought Cicero was going to kill him from behind, and after the guards leave, I raise my brow.

“You didn’t stab him?” I ask.

We leave the pine’s shadowy corner and I check through the archway. The guards head toward the keep; no sign of Veezara.

“Cicero was going to.” He looks down. “Alas, a hard-on is a hard one to run with.”

So are wet unders but I was prepared regardless. Chicken walks down the stairs and up to us, clucks, then scratches around the tree for food.

Cicero noisily retorts, his attention toward the steps, and Proudspire. At the end of the battlement is an alcove where you can watch the bards at the outdoor stage without being a part of the crowd.

Cicero says, “And Listener jumped anyway.”

Moonlight passes by a window from inside the house. I’d look for the door but Cicero’s already ahead of me and pulls me along. Back at the northern end, he tries the handle first, then hunches down and picks it. I glance around for V as an afterthought before Cicero pulls me inside.

“Careful,” I say, “there’s a ghost.”

He puts a finger to his lips and points up. It’s a mansion so perhaps a servant is here. I glance at broken letters on a hallway’s table, one’s addressed to Vittoria Vici. Cicero turns up the stairs and I follow. We hear the pacing first, squeaking the floorboards, slow and habitual as an afterthought, then muted conversation, but only the one side.

A man seemingly mumbles to himself, but I can’t make out words, then I hear water splashing, more footsteps, and a creaking bed. He must’ve said something about not being able to sleep because I can hear the party almost as if it was right outside the walls. Some drunks must’ve stumbled into the residential district. We creep into the bedroom and stand over the man who wears his long shirt to sleep. Cicero nods to the bed but I’ve already noticed it’s made for two. I didn’t see any other bedroom in the house. I sniff the empty pillow. Not a day before her marriage and she’s sleeping, and living, with another man. The same smell lingers here as it did when we talked. As sweet as her voice, as light as her husband’s kindness.

“A…” I tear off the sheets. “FARCE!?”

The man bolts upright and I get flashed by his balls. He scrambles off the bed. He falls. He gets up. I stomp towards him. Cicero blocks the door. When the man tries to leave, Cicero doesn’t let him.

“A whole fucking farce!?”

“Who—how did—guards! Guards!”

“Why didn’t she marry you!? You sleep together!”

“What—what’s it to you!?”

“ANSWER ME!”

He backtracks all over his room, knocking over baubles; fruit bowls and the water basin dump contents onto the wood planks. He’s reaching grabs nothing to defend himself with. Pity because I hoped he was going to use something, anything that might make me admire the attempt, but he walks in circles, and I have to make them too. My knuckles whiten, my teeth ache, and my cheeks burn. I grip my bow, but I’ve put away the arrow. I won’t be needing it.

“Gods, please don’t—” He shields his face and I want to gag.

“Do you love her!?”

“Wh—what?”

Fire rages underneath. I screech so loud even Meridia could hear me. “FUCKING ANSWER ME! Do you love her!?”

“That—that doesn’t matter.”

Anger fades into a deadening calm. “Why not?”

I feel extinguished. The void of Sithis rests about me and I debate pulling this embarrassment into the realm.

“Because it’s just business.”

The calm in the void takes hold and in one throw, I’m launched forward. I don’t know I’m doing it until it’s done, and I’ve choked him out with my bow before I tied him to his bed sheets, and threw him out the unopened window facing the main street.

“Uh, Iggy,” Cicero points.

I turn and the man’s stuck in the window, folded in half with blood and piss trickling. I balance myself to kick my heel into him until he’s through. And the bed sheet jerks tight so I walk away.

“Iggy,” Cicero says.

I snap, “Did he climb back up?” I spin about and Lucien Lachance walks over to the window, then looks back at me. I hear cries for help and chainmail rustling with several pairs of quick, heavy footsteps. I avoid inspecting square on, and what view I have through the broken window sets my hair on end, and frustration’s replaced with a jolting energy. When I turn back, Cicero’s sneaking down the hall. I assume Lucien’s coming with me and we hold outside a door left ajar. A shadow prowls the other side, a wisp to and from drawers to chests. A hooked pole leans against a desk. I signal Cicero and he nods.

“Are you two done playing?” A man’s voice. “Honestly.”

Cicero and I exchange surprised arched brows and having no other strategy, we give up, and I push the door the rest of the way. An office, or second bedroom, is lit by one candle. The lamplighter stuffs his pockets with jewels before grabbing his pole, and heading for us. I tighten my bow grip but he barges past and takes the stairs.

“Hurry up or you’ll be worse than caught.”

“Who are you?” I ask.

“If you recognized me, guildmistress, I’d be out of a job.”

I don’t ask why he takes us to the basement instead of the back door, but briefly wonder what Chicken will do when we’re gone again, then I don’t. She made her way from Falkreath, she’ll find her way back. In a dark storage room, where a crate has been kicked askew of its stacked brethren, the lamplighter lifts a hidden door, and politely orders us in.

I don’t have the luxury to back out when I hear the guards have broken through. Who am I kidding? Fuckers got all the keys to let themselves sing a chanty and dance in.

“Is someone here!?” one yells.

“Right cuz that’ll work.”

“They’re down in the basement!” Cicero yells back.

I shove him. “What are you on!?”

Cicero giggles and skips down the ladder, leaving me hanging off curiosity’s ledge. The lamplighter begins his climb down, moves the box with his hook, then the door shuts, and we descend into the dark with one candle, scurrying through a passage of dank filth that carries us under the city, and I wish I was wearing my boots, but the muted explosion behind us is a happy diversion. “Gas! Gas!” The guards’ echoes cough and sputter until the creeping nothing falls on them, and I bet on which god got their souls first, but the lamplighter pledges they’re alive, and I sink into the cold wet that’s taken my feet, and worse, my dress’ hem, and the color I found that suits me: red.

“Mistress,” Cicero eases in, “are we going to talk about the hanging man?”

Love isn’t a business. It’s neither controllable nor understandable but what I gather from my years of watching my parents manipulate it as a tool, is that I hate its abusers. They call it love but it is greed and it insults the meaning, and the feeling you get when it hits you on the road by the Loreius Farm.

“She wasn’t innocent because no one is,” I say. “V spoke true.” The lamplighter’s pole nudges the ground every other step, a beat to a stone heart. “So did you.” I listened to my deduction rather than Mother but it was the brotherhood’s skills that should be my reasoning, because you are my eyes. You are my senses that make the whole and nothing makes sense without you.

Topside brings fresh pine air and the lingering bitterness only humans can piss. Lucien’s ghost waits by a tree, his weapon drawn, then drops it upon seeing me. Cicero shakes hands with the lamplighter, but with me, he nods with “Delvin will want to know” and takes the trail leading down the mountain. We’re high above Solitude on the north rock. Lucien doesn’t bother me as much as the skeleton resting on the other side, covered in years of perpetual snow. I stare through the rock at what I think might be the grave. I stare for as long as it takes me to think everything else I want to say aloud. In a way, Cicero must know. No one that gets in my head so deep to see what haunts me ever completely leaves. We’re connected and the fluttering has yet to die. I could stand to be less worried, but as he winds me, I’m more alive, and I could die now, and know I was loved stronger than royalty; stronger than anyone who passed off selfishness as love.

“Oh, poop,” Cicero talks me down the slope. “We forgot to get Veezara. Poor lizard must be swarmed by—oh never mind. There he is.” V meets us at the bottom of the Y and he brought the big C too. She clucks contently and we suppose it’d be safer to walk off the roads.

We are mad.

But we are the maddest of all and by that we will never die, no matter how close to the edge of it we try.


End file.
